. 


. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

\ 

GIFT  OF 

Professor  ^enneth 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 


BY  MARY  MAcMILLAN 
SHORT  PLAYS 

The  Shadowed  Star.— The  Ring.— The  Rose.— 
Luck. — Entr*  Act. — A  Woman's  a  Woman  for 
A'  That. — A  Fan  and  Two  Candlesticks. — A 
Modern  Masque. — The  Futurists. — The  Gate 
of  Wishes. 


MORE  SHORT  PLAYS 

His  Second  Girl.  —  At  the  Church  Door.  — 

Honey  .—The  Dress  Rehearsal  of  Hamlet.— The 

Pioneers. — In  Mendelesia,  Part  I. — In  Mende- 

lesia,  Part  II. — The  Dryad. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

The  Weak-End.— The  Storm.— In  Heaven.— 
When  Two's  Not  Company. — Peter  Donelly. — 
An  Apocryphal  Episode. — Standing  Moving. 


A  FAN  AND  TWO  CANDLESTICKS 

(Published  separately) 


THE  LITTLE  GOLDEN  FOUNTAIN 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THIRD  BOOK 

OF 

SHORT  PLAYS 

BY 

MARY  MACMILLAN 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ1Z,    BY 

STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


These  plays  are  fully  protected  by  copyright  in  the  United  States, 
Great  Britain  and  Colonies,  and  countries  of  the  Berne  Conven 
tion.  No  performance,  either  professional  or  amateur,  may  be 
given  without  the  written  permission  of  Mary  MacMillan,  who 
may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the  publishers,  Stewart  Kidd  Com 
pany,  Cincinnati,  Ohio 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
THE  CAXTON  PRESS 


TS 


To 

NANCY  ELY  HENSHAW 


•*  ^ 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WEAK-END 9 

THE  STORM 108 

IN  HEAVEN 139 

WHEN  Two's  NOT  COMPANY 159 

PETER  DONELLY 181 

AN  APOCRYPHAL  EPISODE 215 

STANDING  MOVING 236 


THE  WEAK-END. 

A  FARCE  IN  THREE  ACTS. 

CHARACTERS  AS   THEY  APPEAR. 

ETHEL,  an  essentially  calm  and  detached  young 
woman,  niece  to  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

JERRY,  a  very  excitable  and  sympathetic  young  man, 
nephew  to  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

MRS.  WINTHROP,  a  slightly  more  than  middle-aged 
widow  with  an  actively  romantic  interest  in  the 
love  affairs  of  youth. 

GWENDOLYN,  a  guest ,  tall  and  willowy ',  but  without 
will. 

JIM,  a  guest)  the  fat-tenor  type  of  young  man,  with 
a  rich  cigarette  cough  and  an  aptitude  for  mis 
fortune. 

LEANDER,  a  guest,  also  tall  and  willowy,  but  with 
out  will. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK,  rich,  elderly,  deaf,  with  little 
consideration  for  non-essentials,  friend  to  Mrs. 
Winthrop. 

Miss  RUSSELL,  whose  interests  are  long  in  inten 
tions,  but  short  in  vocabulary,  secretary  to  Mrs. 
Winthrop. 

ANGE,  a  guest,  pretty,  attractive,  clever. 

Liz,  a  guest,  plump,  athletic,  with  a  bull-terrier. 

WALTER,  a  guest,  a  sensible  young  man. 

ALAN,  who  is  uninvited,  a  small  young  man  with  all 
the  will  anyone  else  may  lack. 

CHARLOTTE,  who  is  also  uninvited,  the  feminine 
prototype  of  Alan. 

9 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

[SCENE:  //  is  the  summer  of  1919,  and  the  ac 
tion  takes  place  Friday ',  Saturday ',  and  Sunday 
afternoon  in  one  of  those  intensely  hot  spells  that 
sometimes  visit  the  Middle-West.  The  scene 
throughout  is  in  the  hallway  of  a  country-house 
near  Cincinnati.  On  the  left  side  of  the  stage 
the  front  door  opens  to  a  wide  verandah  which, 
one  must  imagine,  looks  out  upon  a  wooded  lawn 
with  sweeping  driveway  winding  away  among 
great  forest  trees.  On  the  stage  right  the  wide 
doorway  to  the  drawing-room  is  curtained  off. 
At  the  back  of  the  stage  are  glass  doors  dividing 
the  front  from  the  rear  hall,  so  that  what  goes  on 
behind  may  be  seen  but  not  heard  in  front.  The 
stairway  to  the  second  floor  goes  up  at  the  right. 
There  is  a  grandfather's  clock  of  several  genera 
tions  ago,  a  narrow,  stiff,  straight  sofa  of  the 
same  straight  age  and  a  victrola  of  our  more 
wastrel  period.  The  old  mahogany  furniture  and 
all  the  appointments  indicate  the  good  taste  of 
the  lady-of-the-house.  There  is  the  inevitable  tel 
ephone,  but  its  stage  use  will  be  elevated  to  strictly 
long-distance  distinction.  There  will  be  no  meals 
served  on  the  stage  and  no  more  smoking  than  the 
nervousness  of  the  actors  absolutely  demands. 
There  will  be  no  butler  superfluously  polishing 
glass  and  no  parlor  maid  cleansing  the  furniture 
with  a  feather  duster.  There  will  be  no  delinquent 
letter  as  co-respondent  to  the  plot.  Nor  will  there 
be  letters  discovered  under  the  carpet  to  explain 
the  situation,  which  will  have  to  be  gathered 
entirely  from  the  actors  themselves.  When  the 
curtain  goes  up  Ethel  is  seen  lounging  on  a  rattan 
10 


THE    WEAK-END 


couch,  reading  a  book  and  sipping  iced  limeade. 
She  is  dressed  in  white  and  looks  calm  and  cool, 
as  she  always  does.  Jerry  comes  bolting  iny  hot 
and  fussy.] 

ACT  I. 

JERRY.     Oh,  there  you  are! 

ETHEL.  I'm  sorry  my  presence  annoys  you, 
but  I  can't  very  well  help  being  sometimes  where 
I  live. 

JERRY.  I  didn't  do  a  thing  but  remark  that 
you  are  here.  How  you  do  jump  a  chap!  Gosh, 
but  it's  hot!  [Fanning  himself.] 

ETHEL  [looking  at  him  with  dark  disapproval}. 
That  is  one  of  the  most  disgusting  words  you  use. 

JERRY.  It's  too  hot  to  think  of  language.  I'm 
too  languid  for  langwidge.  [Dropping  into  a 
chair.] 

ETHEL  [looking  at  him  and  quite  all  over  him]. 
You  seem  hot. 

JERRY.  Seem,  madam,  nay,  am!  Of  course 
you  are  never  disturbed  by  anything  under  the 
sun  nor  the  sun  himself,  but  I  can  tell  you  it's 
hotter  than  love  in  April. 

ETHEL.     How  poetic. 

JERRY.  It  gets  me  how  you  can  manage  always 
to  look  so  cool,  Ethel. 

ETHEL  [always  with  the  same  calm].  I  make  a 
business  of  it.  You  can't  be  cool  unless  you  try 
to  look  and  feel  cool. 

JERRY.    Can't  you,  though?    Try  it  in  January. 

ETHEL.  You  are  uneducated,  Jerry.  I  am 
ii 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

making  practical  use  of  my  psychology  and  you 
don't  understand.  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  go  to 
college. 

JERRY.  Then  you  wouldn't  have  any  poor  nut 
to  try  out  your  intelligence  on. 

ETHEL.     Did  you  just  come? 

JERRY.  Just  come?  Sure.  And  hurried  to 
you  instantly.  And  this  is  the  way  you  receive 
me.  It  will  be  jolly  to  take  a  swim  later  on. 

ETHEL.     I  thought  I  heard  your  machine. 

JERRY.  You  can't  fail  to  hear  Lizzie.  You 
ought  to  try  your  psychology  on  her.  I've  tried 
everything  but  an  ax. 

ETHEL.     Did  you  come  alone? 

JERRY.  No,  I  brought  Leander  along  with 
me.  He's  out  at  the  pump  washing  up.  The 
rest  of  the  bunch  will  come  in  Walter's  jitney. 

ETHEL  [sitting  up].     But  where  is  Mr.  Lee? 

JERRY.  Leander?  I  told  you  he's  in  the  lav 
atory  laving  his  countenance  of  the  dust  of  the 
Sahara  typhoon  Lizzie  and  the  rest  of  her  breed 
kicked  up  on  the  king's  highway.  Funny  name, 
he  has,  isn't  it  ?  Leander  Lee.  But  it  seems  there's 
been  a  Leander  in  the  family  ever  since  the 
original  one  swam  the  Hellespont.  He's  a  devil 
of  an  F.  F.  V.,  you  know. 

ETHEL.  I  suppose  that  is  why  your  Virginia 
aunt  is  so  keen  about  him. 

JERRY.  My  Virginia  aunt?  I  guess  your  blue- 
blooded  Boston  Winthrop  uncle  married  her. 
Boston  is  as  nutty  about  blue-blood  as  Virginia. 

ETHEL.  That  doesn't  excite  me  particularly. 
12 


THE    WEAK-END 


If  I  had  to  choose  of  course  I  should  prefer  Boston 
to  Virginia,  but  I'm  rather  fed  up  on  old  blood. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [making  her  entrance  swim 
mingly ',  looking  at  them  beamingly}.  Here  you  two 
dear  children  are!  Always  together! 

JERRY.  Together!  About  the  way  two  tom 
cats  are  together. 

ETHEL.  Jerry,  it's  enough  for  you  to  be  so 
covered  with  perspiration  without  using  such 
outrageously  coarse  language.  [She  takes  her  glass 
of  limeade  and  goes.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Why  did  Ethel  go? 

JERRY.  Lord,  does  anyone  know  why  Ethel 
ever  comes  or  goes?  She  and  her  limeade  come 
and  go  when  they  list,  like  the  wind. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  She  always  comes  where  you 
are,  dear. 

JERRY.    Not  if  she  knows  it  first. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  She  really  is  devoted  to  you, 
dear. 

JERRY.  About  as  devoted  to  me  as  a  ball 
rolling  down  a  bowling  alley  is  devoted  to  the 
ten  pins. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  She  is  tremendously  fond  of 
you,  dear.  You  are  a  blind  little  boy  not  to  see  it. 

JERRY.  By  gum,  if  she  shows  it  I  must  be 
blind!  I  reckon  she  went  away  just  for  the  pure 
pleasure  of  meeting  me  again.  Oh,  she's  damned 
crazy  about  me! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  are  so  profane,  dear. 
And  Ethel  is  so  refined.  But  I  suppose  it  makes 
you  fascinating  to  her.  It  is  so  masculine.  Did 
that  delightful  Mr.  Lee  come  with  you? 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY.  Yes,  he's  washing  up.  I  hauled  him 
out  in  Lizzie.  But  why  do  you  call  him  delightful, 
Aunt?  He's  just  six-feet-five  of  Virginia  straight- 
cut. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  I  know  he  must  be 
charming.  His  uncle  was  Ellery  Lee,  of  Roanoke. 
Jerry,  I  feel  certain  already  that  it  is  going  to  be 
a  most  successful  week-end  house-party.  There 
are  sure  to  be  several  affairs.  Wouldn't  it  be 
wonderful  if  several  matches  were  made? 

JERRY.  Aunt,  you  ought  to  have  been  a  car 
penter  and  joiner. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  That  dear  girl  who  came 
out  to  Olive  Morton's  wedding  is  going  to  stay 
over  and  visit  Ethel.  They  were  dear  friends  at 
school,  you  know.  I  persuaded  Ethel  to  invite 
her. 

JERRY.  It  must  have  been  a  touching  attach 
ment  if  you  had  to  persuade  Ethel  to  invite  her. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  Ethel  is  not  demon 
strative  in  her  affections. 

JERRY.     I've  noticed  that. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [with  a  naive  expression  as  of 
"There,  there"  "Tut,  tut"}.  Oh,  Jerry  boy,  you 
can't  deceive  me!  I  know  deep  down  in  your 
heart  how  fond  you  are  of  Ethel. 

JERRY.  About  as  fond  of  her  as  a  monkey  is  ot 
fleas.  She's  a  nice  girl  and  all  that,  of  course, 
being  your  late  husband's  niece,  but  I  give  you 
my  word,  Aunt,  if  she  didn't  live  here  in  the 
house  with  you,  I'd  seek  her  society  about  as 
hard  as  a  toothless  infant  would  suck  a  lemon. 
I've  got  no  martyr's  blood  in  me. 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.  Jerry,  Jerry,  I  thoroughly 
understand  lovers'  quarrels.  It  is  when  two 
natures  are  complete  opposites — like  yours  and 
Ethel's — that  the  strongest  attraction  occurs. 

JERRY  [exploding].  By  Jove,  Aunt,  you'd 
make  a  match  between  St.  Paul  and  Queen  Eliz 
abeth.  [An  automobile  horn  is  heard.]  That  may 
be  St.  Paul  now. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     It  is  somebody. 

JERRY  [running  to  the  window  and  looking  out]. 
It's  just  part  of  them — Jim  and  the  Robertson 
girl. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  that  nice  girl  who  came 
on  to  Olive  Morton's  wedding.  [They  both  go  out 
to  meet  the  guests  on  the  porch  and  almost  imme 
diately  re-enter  with  them.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [leading  in  the  girl  affectionately 
by  the  hand}.  I  am  so  relieved  that  you  are  safely 
here.  One  never  knows — with  those  romantic 
boys  and  their  automobiles.  They  may  suddenly 
decide  to  elope  with  a  pretty  girl. 

JIM  [with  his  plumpness  and  his  cigarette  cough 
he  gives  the  impression  that  he  barely  escaped  death 
by  whooping-cough  or  croup  in  infancy,  only  to  go 
off  with  influenza  later  on].  What  ideas  you  do 
put  into  a  man's  head,  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

JERRY.     Where's  the  rest  of  the  bunch? 

JIM.  Walter  thought  we'd  better  come  in  two 
machines — we  might  not  want  to  go  back  all  at 
the  same  time. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Sly  old  Walter!  He's  think 
ing  of  pairs. 

JERRY.     Or  peaches. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JIM.  They  ought  to  be  here  by  now.  They 
started  first.  But  if  I  don't  happen  to  have  an 
accident,  I  always  beat  Walter. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Gervaise,  take  James  out  to 
wash  his  hands. 

JIM.  My  hands  are  perfectly  clean.  I  don't 
get  all  stewed  up  and  dirty  over  a  little  drive. 
But  I've  got  to  take  some  things  out  of  my  car. 

JERRY  [as  he  goes  out  with  Jim].  I'll  put  his 
duds  in  my  room. 

JIM.  I  haven't  got  much  but  a  collar.  I  don't 
go  loaded  down  with  impedimenta. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Fortunately  we  have  plenty 
of  room  for  everybody  in  this  rambling  old  house 
of  ours.  This  is  my  dear  old  home,  Miss  Robert 
son,  the  house  my  husband  built  for  me  and  to 
which  I  have  retired  in  my  loneliness. 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  it  must  be 
dreadful  to  have  lost  your  husband. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  feel  the  importance  of 
husbands,  don't  you,  dear?  [Smiling  wanly.]  We 
were  great  travelers,  my  husband  and  I,  but  since 
his  death,  I  live  quietly  here.  It  is  very  lonely 
sometimes.  [Sighing.]  That  is  why  I  am  so 
happy  now  to  be  surrounded  by  young  people. 
I  am  all  alone  most  of  the  time  with  just  my  sec 
retary.  And — oh,  before  it  escapes  me,  I  must 
tell  you  about  my  secretary,  Miss  Russell.  I 
always  have  to  warn  people  about  her  so  they 
won't  hurt  her  feelings.  She  was  a  school-girl 
friend  of  mine  and  her  father  lost  all  his  money 
and  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  her  go  to  the  Widows' 
Home. 

16 


THE    WEAK-END 


GWENDOLYN.     Is  she  a  widow,  too? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  dear  no,  but  they  take 
in  people  who  ought  to  be  widows,  too.  I  think 
every  woman  ought  to  be  a  widow — no,  no,  I 
don't  mean  that.  I  mean  every  woman  ought  to 
be  married.  Miss  Russell  has  a  strange  little 
failing,  she  always  gets  the  wrong  word.  It's  a 
slight  detriment  in  a  secretary — I  always  have  to 
re-write  my  business  letters  and  of  course  I  write 
my  personal  letters  anyway.  You  mustn't  notice 
her  words — I  wouldn't  have  her  feelings  hurt  for 
the  world.  But  I  am  very  lonely! 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  how  sad! 
But  doesn't  Ethel  live  with  you? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  Ethel  is  very  unselfish. 
She  gives  me  all  the  time  she  can.  When  she 
isn't  Red-Crossing  or  Y.  W.-ing  or  going  to  col 
lege  alumnae  meetings,  she  is  here  and  brightens 
up  the  old  house  with  her  girlish  presence.  Ethel 
and  Jerry  have  been  sweethearts  from  childhood. 

GWENDOLYN.     How  interesting! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Isn't  it?  [Smiling.]  I  can 
never  quite  decide  whether  it  is  lovelier  to  be 
sweethearts  from  childhood  or  later  to  meet  your 
destined  fate  and  fall  in  love  at  first  sight.  That 
is  so  very  romantic.  You  have  never  met  Mr. 
Lee,  have  you? 

GWENDOLYN  [innocently].     No. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  He  is  a  dear  boyhood  friend 
of  Jerry's.  They  were  at  a  preparatory  school 
together,  though  I  regret  to  say  Gervaise  never 
went  to  college.  He  is  wonderfully  clever,  but 
he  always  permitted  the  other  boys  to  write  his 

17 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

essays  for  him  and  do  his  translations — that  and 
boyish  pranks  seemed  to  prejudice  the  professors 
against  him.  I  have  always  regarded  professors 
as  a  little  narrow-minded.  Gervaise  is  doing 
wonders  now  on  the  stock  exchange.  Business 
has  brought  Mr.  Lee  to  our  city  and  we  must  do 
our  best  to  make  him  forget  he  is  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land. 

GWENDOLYN.     In  a  strange  land? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  My  dear,  don't  whisper  it — 
but  every  other  place  seems  a  little  provincial 
and  uncouth  to  a  Virginian.  So  I'm  going  to 
make  him  feel  as  much  at  home  as  possible  and  I 
count  on  your  help. 

GWENDOLYN.     But  I'm  a  stranger,  too. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  That  is  exactly  the  reason 
you  can  do  so  much  for  him.  [To  Ethel,  who  is 
re-entering^  Here  is  our  girl,  Ethel. 

ETHEL  [greeting  Gwendolyn  in  a  polite  but  all- 
in-the-day' s-work  manner].  So  glad  to  see  you. 
Have  a  nice  ride? 

GWENDOLYN.     Oh,  yes,  we  came  spinning. 

ETHEL.  You  always  do  with  Jimmie.  Didn't 
lose  a  wheel  or  anything? 

GWENDOLYN.     Oh,  no. 

ETHEL.  You  were  lucky.  It's  probably  the 
only  time  in  his  life  he  didn't  have  an  accident. 
He  usually  runs  into  another  car  or  a  tree  or  some 
thing.  Jimmie  is  the  unfortunate  sort. 

JERRY  [re-entering].  I  left  Jim  out  there  work 
ing  with  his  Lizzie.  He  thinks  he's  discovered 
something  the  matter  with  her,  and  if  there  isn't 
now  there  will  be  by  the  time  he  gets  through. 

18 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.  Gervaise,  where  do  you  sup 
pose  Mr.  Lee  is?  He  has  been  so  long. 

JERRY.  He  was  washing  up.  But  Jove,  he's 
had  time  to  swim  the  Hellespont  again.  I'll  go 
see  if  he's  drowned.  [He  goes.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  must  tell  Miss  Gottschalk 
you  have  come.  She  will  be  so  glad.  [She  goes.] 

GWENDOLYN.  It  is  awfully  good  of  you  to 
stay  with  your  aunt.  She  seems  very  lonely. 

ETHEL.  Don't  let  dear  Aunt  work  on  your 
feelings  more  than  you  can  help.  She  was  very 
fond  of  Uncle,  of  course,  but  she's  never  lone 
some.  She  gets  too  much  pleasure  out  of  man 
aging  people  ever  to  be  bored. 

JERRY  [darting  in  again].  How  do  you  do? 
[To  Gwendolyn.]  I  hardly  had  time  to  speak  to 
you  before.  He's  changing  his  shirt.  He'll  be 
here  in  a  minute. 

ETHEL  [continuing].  Aunt  always  has  a  lot  of 
people  about  her.  She  always  has  a  lot  of  my 
friends  or  Jerry's  or  her  own.  And  she  has  her 
secretary,  Miss  Russell. 

JERRY.  Called  Russell  because  she  rustles  so. 
Also  called  more  intimately  Clara.  It's  her 
tongue  that  rustles  continuously  like  autumn 
leaves.  She  has  a  little  discrepancy  of  the 
tongue.  In  fact  you  have  to  make  a  par 
aphrase  mentally  of  everything  she  says — to 
Clarafy  it,  as  it  were — you  might  call  it  a  Clara- 
phrase. 

ETHEL.     And  there's  Miss  Gottschalk. 

JERRY.  Miss  Gottschalk,  like  the  poor,  is 
always  with  us.  Oh,  they're  a  triumvirate,  be- 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

lieve  me,  Aunt  and  Miss  Gottschalk  and  Miss 
Russell.  They're  always  together.  They  travel 
together,  as  every  porter  on  the  trains  between 
here  and  New  York  knows.  They  take  all  the 
comforts  of  home  with  them.  Miss  Gottschalk 
is  the  female  Rockefeller  of  our  humble  burg  and 
I'm  doing  my  best  to  win  her  young  affections, 
but  she's  coy. 

GWENDOLYN.     How  interesting! 

ETHEL.  Oh,  Miss  Gottschalk  is  a  very  old 
friend  who  practically  lives  with  Aunt. 

JERRY.  Practically  for  Aunt  but  very  imprac- 
tically  for  Hermione — Miss  Gottschalk's  baptis 
mal  name  is  Hermione.  Aunt  does  her  out  of  her 
limousine  and  her  bridge  winnings  and  works  her 
for  trips  to  Atlantic  City  and  God  knows  what. 

ETHEL.  No  one  could  do  Miss  Gottschalk  out 
of  her  bridge  winnings — you  know  that.  You 
give  a  false  impression  of  Aunt.  She  is  the  most 
generous  and  harmless  person  in  the  world. 

JERRY.  She  means  to  be,  but  take  it  from  me, 
nobody  is  harmless  who  plans. 

ETHEL.     Absurd. 

JERRY.  I  say,  no  one  is  harmless  who  plans. 
It's  only  Providence  who  can  cope  with  such  a 
person. 

ETHEL.  Miss  Gottschalk  doesn't  seem  to 
suffer  from  her. 

JERRY.  Hermione  has  gobs  of  Government 
bonds,  is  stone  deaf,  is  a  shark  at  bridge,  and 
nobody  knows  what  she  thinks  except  when  she 
is  asleep,  which  she  is  at  stated  intervals. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [re-entering].  Miss  Gottschalk 
20 


THE    WEAK-END 


has  just  wakened.  She  has  been  taking  her  little 
afternoon  nap.  She  is  delighted  to  know  you  are 
here. 

JERRY  [as  Leander  enters].  This  is  Leander, 
Aunt. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  Mr.  Lee,  you  have  made 
me  so  happy  by  your  coming.  This  is  our  Ethel 
and  this  is  Miss  Robertson,  Ethel's  friend. 

[There  are  greetings  and  Miss  Gottschalk  enters. 
She  is  considerably  beyond  middle-age  not  to 
say  quite  elderly,  a  heavy  person  in  weighty 
wisdom,  and  wealth,  wears  glasses,  and  has  the 
look  of  abstracted  observation  common  to  the 
deaf.  Mrs.  Winthrop  turns  to  her  and  leads 
her  forward  by  the  hand.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  My  dear,  this  is  Mr.  Lee, 
Jerry's  friend,  and  this  is  Miss  Robertson,  Ethel's 
bosom  friend. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  How  do  you  do,  young 
people?  [She  greets  them  in  a  friendly  manner 
which,  however,  leaves  no  room  for  doubt  that  their 
existence  is  of  no  essential  importance  to  her.  She 
takes  herself  and  the  book  she  is  carrying  to  a  sofa 
and  lies  down  and  reads.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  We  are  really  a  homogeneous 
little  party  ourselves — aren't  we?  Even  if  the 
others  didn't  come. 

GWENDOLYN.  You  have  a  perfectly  lovely 
place,  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

LEE.    It  is  almost  like  a  Virginia  estate. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Oh,  you  dear  boy! 
21 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

GWENDOLYN.  Or  like  a  country  place  near 
Chicago. 

JERRY.    Except  that  we  are  not  flat  here. 

ETHEL.     Sometimes  some  of  us  are  quite  flat. 

JERRY.  But  never  flatter!  Do  you  swim,  Miss 
Robertson  ? 

GWENDOLYN.     I  adore  swimming. 

JERRY.  Bully!  The  best  part  of  Aunt's  grounds 
is  the  river.  It's  right  out  there  not  a  stone's 
throw  away.  It's  not  over  your  head — you  can 
wade  across  it — but  there  is  one  deep  hole  you 
can  dive  into.  Aunt  has  been  an  old  sport  and 
built  bath-houses  for  us  on  the  bank,  or,  if  you 
prefer,  you  can  use  your  own  room  in  the  house 
and  run  do'wn,  it's  so  near.  Come  on,  let's  have 
a  swim  now  and  not  wait  for  the  rest  of  the 
bunch. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  No,  I  am  going  to  take  these 
two  out  to  see  my  view.  Jerry  and  Ethel  prob 
ably  have  something  they  want  to  do  together. 
[She  takes  Leander  and  Gwendolyn  by  the  arms  and 
•walks  them  out.  "Jerry  and  Ethel  are  left.  They 
look  at  each  other  with  anything  but  agreeable  ex 
pressions.  Jerry  sticks  his  tongue  out  at  Ethel.} 

ETHEL.  I  do  wish  for  Aunt's  sake  you  would 
try  occasionally  to  behave  yourself  like  a  grown 
up  man. 

JERRY.  You're  almost  too  sweet,  Ethel.  Go 
get  yourself  another  limeade,  you  need  more  acid 
in  your  system.  [They  turn  away  from  each  other 
and  go  out  in  different  directions,  Jerry  to  the  porch, 
Ethel  to  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Gotts chalk,  who 
has  paid  no  attention  to  them,  goes  on  reading. 

22 


THE    WEAK-END 


Jim  enters,  looks  about  and  sees  nobody  but  Miss 
Gottschalk.] 

JIM.  Well,  that  beats  the  Dutch!  Where's 
everybody  gone?  [Miss  Gottschalk,  not  hearing 
him,  merely  glances  in  his  direction  and  goes  on 
reading.]  Did  they  leave  you  all  alone,  Miss 
Gottschalk?  I  call  that  low  of  them.  [Miss 
Gottschalk  does  not  hear  him  and  pays  no  attention 
to  him.}  Just  like  them  to  go  off  gallivanting  and 
have  a  jolly  good  time  and  leave  us  all  the  work 
to  do  and  get  along  the  best  way  we  can.  My, 
but  that  little  car  of  mine  is  a  bird.  I  can't  quite 
make  out  what  is  the  matter  with  her  now.  It's 
a  good  thing  she  didn't  stall  on  the  road  out. 
Your  chauffeur  tells  me  he  prefers  a  Stevens- 
Duryea,  though  he's  driven  all  kinds  of  other  cars 
for  you  that  he  likes.  He  likes  a  Cadillac,  too, 
and  a  Win  ton-Six,  and  he  has  no  objections  to  a 
Marmon  or  a  Haines  or  a  Hudson.  He  says  he 
knows  a  man  who  prefers  a  Maxwell  and  another 
who  won't  work  for  people  who  don't  own  a 
Fierce-Arrow,  and  another  who  drives  only  Coles. 
He  says  a  friend  of  his  will  pass  any  man  on  the 
road  with  a  Chandler,  though  this  same  man 
will  drive  a  Roamer  or  a  Paige  or  even  a  Saxon. 
And  another  fellow  swears  by  his  Packard,  though 
he  will  drive  a  Locomobile  if  he  has  to.  And  an 
other  chap  wants  only  a  Premier,  while  another 
one  he  knows  likes  a  Lafayette,  and  an  older 
driver  wants  an  Elgin,  while  a  kid  friend  of  his 
likes  a  Stutz.  Well,  I  guess  it's  a  good  deal  a 
matter  of  taste,  as  the  old  lady  said  when  she 
kissed  her  cow.  When  I  get  to  be  a  millionaire 

23 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

I'm  going  to  buy  me  a  Buick.  But  I  don't  want 
you  to  misunderstand  me — I'm  not  going  back 
on  my  little  Lizzie.  She  suits  me  all  right.  I  say 
little,  but  she's  really  not  so  little.  I  guess  at  a 
pinch  I  could  squeeze  at  least  seven  people  into 
her  and  even  then  hum  up  the  hills  just  the  same. 
Which  is  your  favorite  car,  Miss  Gottschalk? 
Your  man  tells  me  you  have  had  at  least  twenty- 
six  different  makes  since  he  has  been  driving  for 
you.  I  say,  which  is  your  favorite  car? 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [apparently  not  having  heard 
a  word — looks  up].  James  Doolittle,  it  is  a  great 
pity  that  a  young  man  of  your  vast  information 
should  talk  so  little.  [She  reads  again.] 

JIM.  I  just  thought  as  you  had  had  so  many 
cars  you  might  give  me  some  advice.  I  was  just 
coming  round  to  that.  There's  something  the 
matter  with  my  Lizzie.  She  won't  go.  If  it  was 
winter  I'd  think  she  was  cold,  but  she  is  boiling. 
I  thought  she  might  be  too  hot,  so  I  poured  a 
pitcher  of  ice  water  into  her.  Maybe  you  could 
suggest  something.  [She  looks  at  him.]  I  say 
[raising  his  voice],  maybe  you  could  suggest  some 
thing — maybe  you  could  give  me  some  advice 
about  my  Lizzie. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  No,  no.  Not  I — never. 
I  never  mix  up  in  young  men's  love  affairs.  It's 
a  thankless  task.  I  leave  all  that  to  Mrs.  Win- 
throp. 

JIM  [shaking  his  head\.     You  don't  understand. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Probably  not.  Girls  never 
do  understand.  I  should  be  surprised  if  she  did 

24 


THE    WEAK-END 


understand.  Girls  are  a  brainless  lot.  Don't  ever 
expect  any  sense  from  any  of  them. 

JIM  [shaking  his  head  and  frowning.  No,  no, 
no.  She  isn't  a  girl.  I  say  you  don't  understand 
me. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Nonsense,  James  Doolittle! 
Don't  you  try  to  flirt  with  me! 

JIM.     Oh,  my  Lord! 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  I've  had  young  men  try 
to  play  that  little  game  before.  They'll  do  any 
thing,  commit  any  crime  to  marry  money  rather 
than  work.  It's  a  mistake.  Poverty  is  a  young 
man's  greatest  blessing — keeps  'em  from  vice. 
I  say,  James  Doolittle,  poverty  is  your  greatest 
blessing.  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  Don't  you  try 
to  flirt  with  me. 

JIM.  Oh,  my  soul!  [He  turns  and  hurries  out, 
stumbling  into  Miss  Russell,  who  is  coming  in.] 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  my  goodness,  Mr.  Doo 
little,  you  are  so  big!  You  quite  knock  the  breath 
out  of  a  frail  little  butterfly  like  me.  [He  gives 
her  a  terrified  glance  and  rushes  on  out.]  Have  you 
seen  Mrs.  Winthrop?  [Shouting  to  Miss  Gott- 
schalk.] 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  I've  seen  nothing  but 
young  creatures.  They  make  me  nervous  with 
their  excessive  vitality.  They  are  always  jump 
ing  and  running  and  bustling  about.  If  I  had  my 
way  I  should  never  have  anyone  in  the  house 
under  fifty. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  have  so  many  letters  to 
write  and  if  I  don't  get  through  it  will  be  a  per 
fect  category!  She  wants  me  to  write  to  New 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

York  for  a  lot  of  new  underwear,  and  I  have  com 
pletely  forgotten  what  style  of  brazier  she  decided 
on.  [She  hurries  on  out  and  in  a  moment  'Jerry 
comes  in  from  the  back  hall  and  Ethel  from  the 
drawing-room.] 

JERRY.     Well,  she's  fixed  it  already. 

ETHEL.     What? 

JERRY.     Leander  and  your  bosom  friend. 

ETHEL.  You  know  she  is  not  an  intimate  friend 
of  mine  at  all.  We  have  never  corresponded  and 
I  didn't  know  her  well  at  college.  I  haven't 
heard  of  her  for  a  year  and  really  don't  know  a 
thing  about  her.  It  was  Aunt  wanted  to  have 
her  out  here,  not  I. 

JERRY.  I  get  you.  You  want  to  deny  all  re 
sponsibility. 

ETHEL.     I  do. 

JERRY.    Well,  by  Jinks,  no  more  do  I  know  Lee. 

ETHEL.  Miss  Russell  is  more  responsible  for 
inviting  her  than  I  am.  She  wrote  the  note  ask 
ing  her  for  the  week-end.  And  she  spelled  it 
w-e-a-k,  too. 

JERRY.  It's  longer  ago  since  I  saw  Lee.  We 
played  football  together  at  school,  and  a  bum 
player  he  was,  too.  That's  the  very  last  thing  I 
know  about  him.  Of  course  he's  all  right,  and  all 
that,  but  he's  Aunt's  guest  and  not  mine.  I  want 
that  understood.  I'm  not  going  to  be  responsible 
for  him — I'm  not. 

ETHEL.     Well? 

JERRY.  Well,  Aunt's  going  to  make  a  match 
between  them. 

ETHEL.     Oh! 

26 


THE    WEAK-END 


JERRY.  She  says  they're  just  cut  out  for  each 
other,  that  she  never  saw  two  people  so  exactly 
suited,  so  evidently  intended  by  Providence  for 
each  other.  All  right,  let  her  go  ahead  and  work 
on  'em,  maybe  it  will  divert  her  from  you  and  me 
for  a  while. 

ETHEL.     I  devoutly  hope  so. 

JERRY.  There  comes  your  chum.  I  don't  feel 
that  I  want  to  face  her  with  this  dark  red  secret 
on  my  chest. 

ETHEL.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  talk  to 
her  about. 

JERRY.  Leave  her  for  a  tete-a-tete  with  Her- 
mione.  You'd  better  go  get  yourself  another 
limeade — you'll  need  it  to  give  you  strength. 
[He  disappears  out  through  the  back-hall  and  Ethel 
follows  him.  Gwendolyn  enters  from  the  porch, 
looks  about)  watches  Miss  Gottschalk  the  immovable, 
then  goes  to  the  telephone  and  takes  down  the  re 
ceiver^ 

GWENDOLYN  [telephoning^.  Please  give  me 
Long  Distance.  Is  this  Long  Distance?  Will  you 
please  give  me  Mr.  Alan  Davis,  the  Central 
Trust — what?  Oh,  must  I  wait? — Chicago. — 
Please  hurry,  then. — Yes,  this  is  Torrence  Hill, 
1409. — Oh,  please  hurry,  please  do!  [She  hangs 
up  the  receiver  and  goes  away,  wanders  about  a 
little,  seems  fidgetty,  goes  to  the  door  and  looks  out. 
In  a  moment  the  telephone  bell  rings  and  she  rushes 
to  it  and  picks  up  the  receiver^  Am  I  Mrs.  Win- 
throp?  Of  course  not,  what  would  she  want  with 
—Call  her  to  the  telephone  to  O.  K.  it?  Oh,  per 
fectly  impossible! — What? — Oh,  she  has  O.  K.d 

27 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

all  Long  Distance  calls,  only  you  have  to  put  down 
the  name  of  the  person  charging  it.  All  right, 
this  is  Miss  Robertson.  But  you  won't  put  down 
the  name  of  the  person  I'm  telephoning  to,  will 
you?  Of  course  I  don't  want  it  known. — Mr. 
Alan  Davis,  Central  Trust  Building,  Chicago. 
Oh,  please  hurry,  please  do!  [She  hangs  up  the 
receiver  again  and  walks  to  and  fro  nervously.  In 
a  moment  the  bell  rings  again  and  she  rushes  back 
to  the  telephone.]  Yes.  Yes.  Oh,  YES.  Is  that 
you,  darling?  Alan,  it's  Gwen.  Yes.  I'm  out 
here  at  Mrs.  Winthrop's  country  place  where  I 
told  you  I  was  coming  and  I'm  all  alone  in  this 
hall  and  I  just  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  of 
calling  you  up.  I'm  all  alone  except  for  a  stone- 
deaf  old  woman — she  doesn't  hear  a  thing  I  am 
saying.  The  others  are  all  out  somewhere. 
Some  one  may  come  in  any  minute,  so  I  can't 
talk  long. — Oh,  yes,  seven  or  eight — it's  a  week 
end  party,  you  know. — Tell  them  I'm  engaged  to 
you?  Certainly  not — that  is  my  own  private 
affair,  too  dear  and  sacred  to  share  with  strangers. 
— Men  ?  Of  course  there  are  men. — What  ?— Oh, 
they're  all  paired  off,  in  love  with  each  other,  ac 
cording  to  Mrs.  Winthrop. — Oh,  you  foolish  boy! 
There  never  has  been  anyone  else  in  the  whole 
world  since  I  have  known  you. — Oh,  I  know  it  is 
expensive  calling  up  over  the  Long  Distance 
[smiling} — specially  as  I  am  going  to  marry  a 
laddie  of  Scotch  ancestry — and  I'll  have  to  make 
Mrs.  Winthrop  let  me  pay  her  for  it.  I  won't  do 
it  again — I'm  going  to  be  very  economical  and 
save  money — but  I  had  to  just  this  once.  I  had 

28 


THE    WEAK-END 


this  wonderful  opportunity  all  by  myself  and  I 
wanted  so  to  hear  your  dear  voice. — I  wanted  to 
make  sure  you  still  love  me — do  you? — [Smiling 
ecstatically.}  Oh,  you  dear  rascal! — There  comes 
somebody! — No,  I  won't  do  it  again.  Goodbye, 
darling. — What? — The  other  men?  Why,  of 
course,  dear,  I've  got  to  be  nice  to  them. — One  of 
them  is  a  stranger — I  have  to  be  polite  to  him. — 
Oh !  [Smiling  as  though  she  had  heard  something 
particularly  tender.}  There,  goodbye,  sweetheart! 
[She  hangs  up  the  receiver  just  as  Le  under  comes  in.} 

LEANDER.     Oh,  you  were  using  the  telephone. 

GWENDOLYN.     Did  you  want  to? 

LEE.     Oh,  no,  not  at  all. 

GWENDOLYN.     I  was  just  going. 

LEE.  Oh,  don't  let  me  drive  you  away.  I 
don't  need  to  telephone  at  all.  It  was  only  a 
little  business  I  forgot  to  attend  to  in  town. 

GWENDOLYN.  I  was  going,  anyway.  I — I  had 
forgotten  my — my  toothbrush  and  had  to  tel 
ephone  for  one.  Now  don't  let  me  interrupt  you. 
I  must  take  some  things  out  of  my  suit-case  to 
keep  them  from  mussing.  [She  goes  and  he 
wanders  nervously  about,  looks  anxiously  at  Miss 
Gottscha/ky  who  calmly  reads  ony  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  him.  Finally  he  goes  to  the  telephone.} 

LEE.  Give  me  Long  Distance,  please. — Give 
me  Miss  Sallie  Carter — what? — Oh,  my  name? 
What  difference  does  it  make? — Well,  if  you  must 
know,  Leander  Lee. — I  want  Miss  Sallie  Carter, 
the  Washington,  Roanoke,  Virginia. — This  is 
Torrence  Hill  1409. — Please  be  quick  about  it — 
it's  important  business  and  my  time  is  limited. 

29 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

[He  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  wanders  about 
nervously  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets ,  goes  to  the 
door  and  looks  out.  The  bell  rings  in  a  moment 
and  he  hurries  over  and  takes  up  the  receiver.] 
Hello! — Hello,  sweetheart!  Yes,  this  is  Lee. — I 
am  out  here  at  Mrs.  Winthrop's  country  house, 
where  I  told  you  I  was  coming.— The  bunch  is 
scattered  and  I  am  all  alone  in  this  hall,  with 
nobody  but  a  stone-deaf  old  woman  who  doesn't 
hear  a  word  I  say.  So  I  couldn't  resist  the  tempta 
tion  of  calling  you  up.— Say,  honey,  I  was  just 
crazy  to  hear  your  sweet  voice. — Oh,  it's  a  week 
end  party. — About  eight. — Are  there  girls?  Sure, 
there  are  girls,  but  I  never  see  anybody  since  I 
fell  in  love  with  you.  You  are  the  onliest  lil'  girl 
for  me. — Why,  darlin',  I  wear  your  locket  round 
my  neck  all  the  time. — Tell  them  we  are  engaged? 
No,  of  course  not.  Maybe  girls  go  around  telling 
that  sort  of  thing,  but  a  man  can't.  Oh,  I  know 
it's  expensive  calling  up  over  the  Long  Distance 
• — I  know  you  want  me  to  save  all  my  spare  cash 
now — and  I'll  have  to  pay  Mrs.  Winthrop.  Say, 
honey,  I  forgot  for  a  moment  your  grandmother 
was  Scotch! — Oh,  well,  all  right — I  know  you  are 
right — you  always  are! — I  won't  do  it  again, 
honey,  believe  me,  but  I  just  had  to  this  one 
chance — I  may  never  have  another  after  they  all 
get  here. — I  just  had  to  hear  your  sweet  voice 
tell  me  you  are  my  little  girl  still? — And  am  I 
your  great  big  boy?  [Smiles  ecstatically. [  Oh, 
say! — Don't  I  write  you  every  day?  Darlin'! 
Oh,  this  crowd  are  all  sweet  on  each  other,  so 
Mrs.  Winthrop  tells  me. 

3° 


THE    WEAK-END 


Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [getting  up].  This  couch  is 
very  uncomfortable.  I  shall  try  to  find  something 
softer.  I  dare  say,  young  man,  you  find  every 
thing  soft.  The  young  do.  I  suppose  you  are  so 
soft  yourself.  But  remember,  young  man,  as 
you  make  your  bed  so  you  will  have  to  lie  on  it. 
[She  goes.] 

LEE.  I  wonder  what  she  meant  by  that? — 
Oh,  it  was  only  this  stone-deaf  old  woman  made  a 
remark  about — nothing  at  all. — Oh,  I  couldn't, 
sweetheart. — You  are  my  onliest  little  honey- 
bunch. — Why,  dearie,  I've  got  to  be  polite  to 
these  girls.  One  of  them's  a  stranger — I've  got 
to  sort  of  show  her  a  good  time.  There  comes 
somebody,  I  must  hang  up.  Goodbye,  honey, 
sweetheart!  [He  is  nervously  hanging  up  the  re 
ceiver  and  in  looking  round,  drops  it,  jumps  to 
replace  it,  ejaculates  "O^!"j 

Miss  RUSSELL  [entering  fussily,  as  always]. 
Oh,  Mr.  Lee! — I'm  sure  it  is  Mr.  Lee,  because  of 
Mrs.  Winthrop's  description  of  you.  She  said 
you  are  an  Apollyon  and  you  are — a  perfect 
Apollyon! 

LEE  [smiling  rather  constrainedly].  You  are — I 
am  afraid — cruelly  witty. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Flatterer!  I  am  Miss  Russell, 
Mrs.  Winthrop's  friend.  I  am  afraid  I  frightened 
you.  I'm  a  dangerous  person,  you  know!  [Smil 
ing  archly.] 

LEE  [bowing  in  his  most  beautiful  manner].  A 
most  attractive  danger. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Dangers  have  their  detrac 
tions,  don't  they?  You  politic  young  man  with 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

your  compliments.  I'm  sure  you  are  a  soldier — 
soldiers  are  so  politic. 

LEE.  Some  of  them  have  tried  to  be,  but 
senators  beat  them. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  But  you  are  a  soldier,  aren't 
you? 

LEE.    Well,  yes,  I  have  had  that  honor. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  There,  I  knew  it.  I'm  a  great 
character  reader.  I  knew  you  were  a  soldier  by 
your  feet.  You  can  always  tell  a  soldier  by  his 
feet.  Never  look  at  his  head — that  doesn't  mat 
ter.  And  I'll  wager  you  were  an  officer — a  first 
lieutenant. 

LEE.     Hardly  that — I  was  a  captain. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  indeed!  Then  I'll  wager 
you  rose  from  the  ranks. 

LEE.  No,  I  went  to  an  officers'  reserve  camp. 
You  see,  I  had  an  uncle  in  Congress. 

Miss  RUSSELL.     Oh,  how  importunate. 

LEE.  It  was  really  quite  easy — and  safe.  If 
you  enlist  as  a  private  you  may  get  into  a  bunch 
of  awful  roughnecks. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  can  see  that  private  life 
would  always  be  questionable. 

LEE.    I  shouldn't  want  mine  to  be  to  you. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  you  flatterer!  I  have 
always  heard  that  millinery  men  and  especially 
Southerners  are  awful  flatterers. 

LEE  [in  smiling  gallantry].  Oh,  Miss  Russell, 
you  wouldn't  think  me  insincere?  I  assure  you 
I  mean  everything  I  say  to  you. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [coyly].  I  believe  you  are  a  flirt. 
32 


THE    WEAK-END 


But  I  interrupted  your  telephoning.  It  must 
have  been  to  your  sweetheart. 

LEE.  Oh,  no,  indeed.  I  was — I — you  see  I 
forgot — my  toothbrush.  And  I  was  just  going 
to — 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Let  me  get  one  for  you. 
Thomas,  the  butler,  is  going  in  to  town  this 
evening.  He  always  goes  in  Saturday  evening  for 
a  toot,  you  know.  He  is  going  to  do  several  little 
omissions  for  me  and  I  shall  be  delighted  to  have 
him  buy  a  toothbrush.  He  shall  get  you  some 
powder  or  paste,  too. 

LEE.     How  sweet  of  you. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Not  at  all.  Do  you  know,  I 
would  do  anything  for  you — do  you  believe  it? 

LEE.    I,  oh — I  should  like  to  believe  it. 

Miss  RUSSELL.    You  are  a  flirt. 

LEE.     Really  not. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  You  and  I  will  have  a  little 
secret.  Just  our  own  weenty-teenty  secret. 
Anything  you  want — anything — you  come  to  me 
about — a  toothbrush  or  anything — and  I  will 
make  it  my  care  to  look  after  all  your  wants. 

LEE.    Oh,  Miss  Russell,  you  are  too  good. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Don't  call  me  Miss  Russell — 
call  me — Clara! 

LEE.    I  must  go  now.    Mrs.  Winthrop  wants  me. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Remember  our  secret!  And 
don't  you  ask  her  for  anything,  or  Ethel,  or  any 
body  but  me! 

LEE.    You  shall  be  my  fairy-godmother. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  And  you  shall  be  my  fairy 
prince.  Don't  forget  our  secret! 

3  33 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

LEE.  No.  [As  he  starts  to  go  she  holds  out  her 
hand.] 

Miss  RUSSELL.     To  close  our  bargain. 

LEE.  And  seal  it.  [He  bends  over  her  hand  and 
kisses  ity  then  hurries  off.] 

Miss  RUSSELL  [as  he  goes].  Oh,  you — [when  he 
is  gone] — darling! 

JIM  [entering,  stands  and  looks  at  Miss  Russell]. 
Oh,  here  you  are,  Miss  Russell,  busy  as  usual. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  you  imperial  young  per 
son.  [With  a  wink  at  him  and  a  shrug.]  I  was 
hunting  Mrs.  Winthrop.  I  have  looked  every 
where  for  her — in  the  garden  and  even  in  the 
barage,  but  she  doesn't  seem  to  be  anywhere  on 
the  astute. 

JIM.  Maybe  she's  come  back  into  the  house 
now.  It's  a  lovely  house,  Miss  Russell.  Must 
be  awfully  jolly  to  be  somebody's  secretary  and 
live  in  such  a  nifty  place. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  It  is  charming.  Mrs.  Win 
throp  has  such  good  taste  and  is  so  fond  of  art. 
That  litttle  Pellagra  figue  there  (pointing  to 
a  Tenagra  figure}  I  think  is  adorable.  And 
that  little  bronze  copy  of  the  MacMonnies  De 
butante  I  think  is  dear. 

JIM.  She  hasn't  any  more  clothes  on  than  the 
average  debutante.  I  don't  know  much  about  art. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Of  course,  I'm  not  a  dinosaur 
myself,  but  I've  picked  up  a  good  deal  of  mal 
formation  from  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [returning  from  the  drawing- 
room].  The  couch  in  there  is  as  uncomfortable  as 
this  one.  I  shall  have  one  of  my  own  Davenports 

34 


THE    WEAK-END 


brought  out.  [She  reclines  on  the  couch  again  and 
closes  her  eyes.] 

JIM  [looks  rather  puzzled,  but  smiles  gallantly]. 
Well,  I  leave  all  that  to  the  ladies. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [tapping  him  on  the  arm  with  her 
fan}.  Of  course,  you  do,  you  great  big  soldier- 
man — what  do  you  care  about  art?  Your  spear 
is  war!  I  adore  soldiers — one  almost  wishes  we 
could  have  another  war.  But  glory  rhymes  with 
gory.  If  we  could  have  wars  without  bloodshed! 

JIM  [looking gloomy].  Does  it?  I  ain't  much  on 
poetry,  either. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Of  course  not,  you  big,  brave 
warrior!  You  leave  all  the  little  embroideries  of 
life  to  the  ladies. 

JIM.  Well,  I  don't  know.  I'm  used  to  acci 
dents — having  driven  my  Lizzie — and  I  did  want 
to  get  to  France.  But,  Miss  Russell,  I'll  be  frank 
with  you,  I  never  got  anywhere  beyond  the  Ohio 
River.  What  I  had  to  do  was  wash  plates,  and 
after  that  I  took  care  of  the  men  that  went  crazy. 
I  guess  they  gave  me  the  job  because  I'm  big. 
They  seemed  to  regard  me  as  a  sort  of  human 
punching  bag  in  uniform. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  My  dear,  life  always  has  its 
full-backs. 

JIM.    Well,  I'm  used  to  accidents — if  only  I — 

Miss  RUSSELL.  It  isn't  all  roses  here.  It's 
difficult  living  wit*h  [nodding  her  head  in  the  di 
rection  of  Miss  Gottschalk]  an  octogeranium  like 
that.  Stone-deaf  and  SO  old!  [Lowering  her  voice 
to  a  stage  whisper.]  She'll  soon  be  quite  intrepid! 
[Louder.]  Perhaps  Mrs.  Winthrop  is  in  her  room. 

35 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JIM.  You're  not  going  to  leave  me?  \fVith  an 
apprehensive  glance  at  Miss  Gottschalk.] 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  you  soldier-men  are  such 
flirts!  Mr.  Lee  is  a  soldier,  a  captain. 

JIM.    Just  his  luck. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  And,  oh,  he  is  so  handsome 
and  gallant,  don't  you  think  so? 

JIM.     I  hadn't  noticed  it. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  he  is.  But  all  you  sol 
diers  are  flirts!  [She  scuttles  off,  looking  back  and 
throwing  him  a  kiss.  Jim  gives  a  furtive  glance  at 
Miss  Gottschalk  and  steals  off,  tiptoeing.] 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  James  Doolittle,  don't  you 
try —  [He  flees.} 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [as  she  and  Jerry  enter  from  the 
porch].  My  dear,  it  is  perfectly  lovely!  They 
have  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  at  first  sight. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.    Who  have? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Mr.  Lee  and  Miss  Robert 
son. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Has  either  of  them  any 
money  ? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  what  a  thing  to  suggest! 
It  is  love,  my  dear,  love!  You  can  just  see  they 
were  made  for  each  other — they  look  alike — they 
are  like  a  young  god  and  goddess — both  tall  and 
fair.  They  are  alike  temperamentally,  too,  both 
so  modest  and  shy.  Being  so  similar  is  why  they 
are  attracted  to  each  other.  It  is  an  axiom  of 
mine  that  like  attracts  like. 

JERRY.    Well,  by  Jinks! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  is  beautiful  to  look  on 
and  see  the  young  love  dawning  in  their  eyes. 

36 


THE    WEAK-END 


Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Can  either  of  these  young 
people  play  bridge? 

JERRY  [as  an  automobile  horn  is  heard}.  That 
must  be  the  rest  of  the  bunch.  [Almost  imme 
diately  Ange,  Walter,  and  then  Liz,  with  her  dog, 
come  running  in.] 

ANGE.    How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Winthrop? 

[They  all  greet  one  another.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  you  dear  children,  I  am 
so  delighted  to  have  you. 

ANGE.    Especially  Liz's  dog. 

Liz.  It  was  sweet  of  you  to  let  me  bring 
Fido. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  What  a  strange  name  for  a 
bulldog! 

JERRY.  Liz  calls  him  Fido  because  it  is  the 
generic  name  for  dogs  in  her  family,  just  as  Maggie 
is  for  cooks  in  ours. 

Liz.    He  loves  so  to  ride  in  an  automobile. 

JERRY.  Well,  you  got  here  all  right,  all  of  you 
— Liz  and  Fido  and  Ange  and  Walter — four. 

ANGE.     Walter  is  the  safe  and  sane  4th. 

Liz.  He  is  that — you  can  always  depend  on 
old  Walter. 

ANGE.  Have  the  others  really  arrived?  We 
expected  to  pick  up  Jimmie's  bones  scattered  on 
the  road. 

JERRY  [as  Jim  comes  in].  Let  him  speak  for 
himself. 

JIM.  I  don't  see  why  you  take  it  for  granted  I 
couldn't  get  out  here  without  an  accident. 

ANGE.  There  were  probably  no  trees  along  the 
road.  Jimmie  forgets  his  car  is  not  a  cat. 

37 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

WALTER.  When  he  tried  to  ford  the  river  he 
thought  it  was  a  fish. 

JERRY.     Instead  of  a  Ford. 

ANGE.  Why,  there  is  Miss  Gottschalk,  I  didn't 
see  her.  [She  goes  to  speak  to  Miss  Gottschalk, 
followed  by  Walter  and  Liz.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Children,  now  that  we  are 
all  together — all  except  Ethel,  and  she  knows — 
and  before  our  two  young  strangers  join  us,  I 
want  to  tell  you  something  and  obtain  your  co 
operation.  [She  looks  around,  gathers  them  all 
together,  and  exclaims  "Hush."]  Jerry's  friend, 
Mr.  Lee,  and  Ethel's  friend,  Miss  Robertson, 
have  met  and  the  little  god  of  love  is  already  at 
work  with  his  merry  pranks.  It  is  perfectly  clear 
that  these  two  have  fallen  in  love  with  each 
other  at  first  sight,  and  I  thought  I'd  better  tell 
you  so  that  you  will  know  what  course  to  pursue. 
You  will  all  have  to  be  considerate  and  discreet 
and  make  opportunities  for  them  to  be  alone 
together  as  much  as  possible. 

JIM  [looking  slyly  at  Ange\.  I  say,  though,  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  isn't  it  rather  a  shame?  I  brought 
her  out  here  and  she's  a  peach,  and  I've  not  even 
had  a  look  in.  I  didn't  know  there  was  going  to 
be  a  frame-up. 

ANGE  [teasingly].  You  were  born  to  disappoint 
ment,  Jimmie.  This  is  another  case  where  you 
will  have  to  practise  your  noble  self-sacrifice. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  see  I  can  count  on  your 
co-operation. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [sitting  up].  Oh,  there  you 
are. 

38 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.    All  the  world  loves  a  lover. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.    Except  deaf  old  women. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [smiling].  The  deaf,  my 
dears,  are  as  paradoxical  as  parrots — they  sur 
prise  you  with  apropos  remarks  when  they  haven't 
heard  a  word. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [hurrying  in}.  Oh,  has  the 
party  all  assembled?  How  do  you  do,  every 
body!  [Looking  about.}  All  here  except  Mr.  Lee, 
that  perfectly  charming  young  man. 

ANGE  [to  Ethel,  who  slowly  walks  in,  carrying  a 
glass  of  limeade].  Hello,  Ethel. 

ETHEL.     Hello. 

WALTER.    Hello,  Ethel.    It's  a  warm  day. 

ETHEL.    Hello. 

[Leander  and  Gwen  appear  from  different  direc 
tions^  she  from  the  back-hall^  he  from  the 
porch.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  (with  her  finger  on  her  lip]. 
Hush!  Here  they  come!  Remember  what  I 
told  you! 

Miss  RUSSELL  [hastening  to  Lee's  side].  Re 
member  our  secret!  If  you  want  anything — a 
handkerchief — I  have  lots  of  them — or  comb  or 
nail-file — 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Where  have  you  truants 
been? 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Can  any  of  you  young 
people  play  bridge? 

JERRY.  Let's  have  a  dance.  [He  starts  the  vic- 
trola.  A  wild  Hawaiian  tune  is  heard.  They  all 
start  to  dance.] 

[CURTAIN  TO  ACT  IJ 

39 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 


ACT  II. 

[As  remarked  before,  the  scene  is  in  the  hallway 
of  Mrs.  Winthrop's  country  house.  It  is  the 
next  afternoon — Saturday,  and  still  very  hot. 
Jerry  comes  in  through  one  door  and  Ethel 
through  another,  the  latter  carrying  a  tall  glass  of 
limeade.} 

JERRY.  There  you  are  with  that  eternal 
limeade. 

ETHEL  [calmly  seating  herself  in  a  rocking-chair 
and  setting  her  glass  on  a  table  at  her  side].  Jerry, 
you  smoke  too  much.  You  consume  entirely  too 
many  cigarettes — they  make  you  nervous. 

JERRY.  Me  nervous?  Well,  by  Jimminy!  I 
don't  have  to  dope  myself  up  on  limeade  all  the 
time  to  keep  calm.  I  reckon  it's  sweets  to  the 
sweet,  and  limes  to  a  lemon.  Lime  is  an  awful 
word — sounds  like  slime. 

ETHEL.  You  are  inconsequential,  as  usual. 
What  have  you  done  with  your  protege? 

JERRY.    Leander?    He's  no  protege  of  mine. 

ETHEL.     You  brought  him  here. 

JERRY.  I  didn't.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Miss 
Russell  wrote  the  note  asking  him  out  for  the  week 
end — spelled  it  w-e-a-k,  too.  And,  by  Jinks,  it's 
the  way  to  spell  it  as  far  as  he  is  concerned. 
However,  it's  not  my  fault  if  he  turned  out  a  pie. 

ETHEL.    He  isn't.    He's  a  very  pleasant  fellow. 

JERRY.  He's  a  nut.  Why  can't  he  carry  on 
40 


THE    WEAK-END 


his  own  love  affair?  Aunt  says  to  get  him  and 
Gwen  together  and  give  him  a  chance,  and  I  get 
them  together — I  spend  all  my  valuable  time  get 
ting  them  together — and  he  acts  like  a  kitten 
spitting  at  a  saucer  of  milk. 

ETHEL.    I  suppose  you  are  not  tactful. 

JERRY.  I'm  the  soul  of  tact.  But,  by  gum,  if 
I  were  in  love  with  a  girl,  you  wouldn't  have  to 
be  dragging  me  after  her  with  a  rope  all  the  time. 
[Gives  Ethel  a  sidelong,  dark  look.]  Anyhow,  it's 
my  private  opinion  that  he's  nuts  on  Clara. 

ETHEL.    Miss  Russell?    Jerry,  you  perfect  idiot. 

JERRY.  Well,  you  never  can  tell — love's  a 
funny  dope.  Guys  have  been  known  to  fall  in 
love  with  their  grandmothers  before.  There's 
Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Who  knows  but  what 
Clara  has  turned  into  a  vamp.  Anyhow,  he  hops 
around  after  her  like  a  young  sparrow  after  its  ma. 

ETHEL.  Oh,  it's  all  her  fault.  She's  crazy 
about  him,  that  is  quite  evident. 

JERRY.  Of  course,  you  blame  the  woman — 
that's  the  catty  way  girls  have.  If  he  isn't  in  love 
with  her,  he's  acting  like  a  worse  idiot  than  I 
thought  he  was. 

[Mrs.  Winthrop  comes  in  dressed  in  a  pretty 
summer  gown  and  carrying  her  knitting^ 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Here  you  two  are  again! 

JERRY.  Aunt,  I  should  think  all  that  wool  stuff 
would  be  awfully  hot  in  this  weather. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  is,  dear,  but  duty  takes 
no  account  of  weather.  Just  as  you  stood  by  the 
guns  so  do  we  stand  by  our  knitting. 

JERRY.    I  thought  there'd  been  enough  sweat- 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

ers.  I  got  nineteen.  Anyway,  the  war  is  over, 
all  the  officers  and  even  some  of  the  men  are 
home. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  This  is  Red  Cross  work, 
dear,  which  never  ceases.  We  are  going  to  de 
vote  ourselves  to  Persia. 

JERRY.  I  should  think  it  was  hot  enough 
there. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Wool  is  an  absorbent.  All 
the  aviators  use  it.  It  is  necessary  in  all  climes 
to  absorb  night  dampness. 

JERRY.     I'm  beat. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  thought  everyone  had  gone 
swimming?  But  you  two  are  always  having  a 
tete-a-tete.  [She  smiles  at  them,  and  they  look 
cross.]  Of  course  the  others  understand. 

ETHEL.     I  hope  they  do  understand. 

JERRY.     You  bet  I  hope  so. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  is  so  nice  to  have  an  even 
number  of  men  and  girls — they  get  to  know  each 
other  so  well. 

JERRY.    And  sprout  so  many  love  affairs. 

ETHEL.  Love  affairs  are  like  pots — they  never 
boil  if  they're  watched. 

JERRY.  Ethel,  you're  a  regular  Luke  McLuke 
for  making  bon  mots. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [hurrying  in].  Oh,  there  you 
are.  I  have  been  hunting  for  you  everywhere — 
I  am  obliged  to  tell  you  of  the  escalades  of  the  dog. 

ETHEL.  Aunt,  dear,  I  really  think  you  will  have 
to  indicate  gently  in  your  beautiful,  tactful  way 
to  Liz  Smith  that  her  dog  isn't  altogether  wel 
come. 

42 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.  Why,  I  know  he  is  a  perfect 
nuisance,  but  how  am  I  going  to  be  able  to  tell 
Elizabeth?  She  dotes  on  him  so. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  If  he  stays,  all  the  servants 
will  leave. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Has  he  done  much  harm? 

Miss  RUSSELL  [to  Ethel}.     You  tell  her. 

ETHEL.  Yesterday  he  ate  up  the  laundress' 
best  hat  and  chased  the  cows  just  before  milking 
time  and  that,  they  say,  is  so  bad  for  the  cows. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  John  says  it  drives  the  milk 
into  the  cows'  horns. 

ETHEL.  John  was  infuriated  and  threw  rocks 
at  Fido  till  he  sprained  his  shoulder,  which  didn't 
improve  his  temper. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  John  ought  to  keep  the  cows 
penned  up  more  closely.  Elizabeth  says  the  dog 
is  so  young  and  never  really  means  any  harm. 

JERRY.  But  a  dog  is  judged  by  what  he  does, 
not  what  he  means — by  effect,  not  cause. 

ETHEL.  This  morning  he  broke  away  from  Liz 
and  dug  up  Giovanni's  pet  rosebed  in  the  garden. 
Giovanni  is  usually  very  deferential  with  me,  but 
when  he  told  me  about  it  he  forgot  himself  com 
pletely — I  have  never  in  my  life  heard  such  oaths. 

JERRY.  Trust  a  dago  to  swear — it  takes  the 
Holy  Roman  Empire  to  cuss. 

ETHEL.  It  seems  that  when  Giovanni  remon 
strated  with  Fido,  the  dog  thought  he  was  play 
ing  and  jumped  on  him,  throwing  him  down  and 
— you  know  it  had  been  raining  in  the  night  and 
the  flower-bed  was  muddy — Fido  rolled  Giovanni 
in  the  mud. 

43 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     But  it  was  all  in  play. 

ETHEL.  But  Giovanni  didn't  want  to  play — 
he  is  a  serious-minded  old  man. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Perhaps  you'd  better  tell 
Elizabeth  to  watch  her  dog  more  closely. 

ETHEL.  Well,  Aunt,  dear,  you  are  the  one  who 
ought  to  tell  her,  not  I. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [fuming  to  Miss  Russell]. 
Then  you  do  it  for  me,  Clara. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  Helen,  really,  I  couldn't. 
I  could  write  a  consulting  note  to  a  stranger  if 
necessary,  but  to  speak  to  Liz  would  be  abso 
lutely  imperative  in  me,  and  she  knows  I  have  a 
perfect  perversion  to  dogs. 

ETHEL.    But  we  can't  lose  all  the  servants. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [to  Ethel].  Well,  then,  send 
Liz  to  me. 

ETHEL.  I  will  if  I  can  find  her,  but  I  have  to 
attend  to  the  salad  for  dinner. 

JERRY.  You  do  that  very  well,  Ethel.  You 
ought  to  confine  yourself  to  salads. 

ETHEL.  They  are  better  dressed  and  not  so 
green  as  some  young  men. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Perhaps  you  could  find  Liz. 
Remember,  dear  [to  Ethel  as  she  goes],  to  do  all 
you  can  for  Gwendolyn  and  Leander.  They  are 
madly  in  love,  but  they  are  both  so  absurdly 
shy.  I  don't  believe  he  has  actually  proposed  to 
her  yet.  And  he  an  officer,  too.  But  they  say  a 
soldier  who  will  intrepidly  face  a  gun  will  tremble 
before  a  woman.  The  dears!  They  both  talk  to 
me  and  tell  me  how  they  feel,  but  when  they  are 

44 


THE    WEAK-END 


together  they  are  so  timid.  Jerry,  you  really 
ought  to  do  more  for  Leander. 

JERRY.  Oh,  help  a  camel  to  swim  in  sand! 
Why  doesn't  he  pick  up  his  feet?  Anyhow,  he's 
nuts  on  Clara. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Gervaise,  don't  make  me 
think  you  are  a  born  fool. 

JERRY.  It's  not  me  that's  a  fool.  I  tell  you 
it's  true — he  is.  He's  just  the  sort  of  degenerate 
that  would  fall  in  love  with  his  maiden  aunt. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Gervaise!  Remember  to 
whom  you  are  talking.  I  never  allow  that  word 
to  be  used  in  my  presence. 

JERRY.  Well,  I  can't  help  the  facts.  You 
watch  'em.  He's  nuts  on  her.  Of  course  Ethel 
says  it's  all  Clara's  fault,  but — 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  is  absurd,  ridiculous.  It 
can't  be. 

JERRY.     But  it  is. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
herself.  She  is  old  enough  to  be  his  mother. 

JERRY.     But  she's  sentimental. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  She  never  had  a  love  affair 
in  her  life. 

JERRY.  All  the  more  why  she's  having  it  good 
and  hard  now.  Her  passion  has  been  bottled  up. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  will  attend  to  Miss  Russell. 
I  will  give  her  letters  to  write  that  will  take  every 
scrap  of  her  time  for  the  rest  of  the  summer.  I 
wish  she  would  learn  to  use  the  typewriter,  but 
she  never  gets  beyond  one  ringer  and  she  wears 
out  the  paper  changing  mistakes.  Oh,  go  find 
Lee  and  bring  him  to  me. 

45 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY.  There  comes  the  love-sick  ostrich  now. 
Like  a  horse  that  hasn't  made  up  its  mind  to  race. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  go  find  Gwendolyn  and 
bring  her  here. 

[Jerry  heaves  a  sigh  and  goes,  passing  Leander 
entering^ 

MRS.  WINTHROP  \beaming  on  Lee].  Jerry  and  I 
were  just  talking  about  what  fun  you  would  have 
swimming. 

LEE.     But  I  don't  swim. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  don't?  What  a  pity! 
Gwendolyn  swims  beautifully. 

LEE  {without  enthusiasm].     Does  she? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  is  the  only  thing  you 
haven't  in  common.  She  will  have  to  teach  you. 

LEE.  She'd  have  a  very  stupid  pupil.  Nobody 
could  ever  teach  me  to  swim — I  don't  seem  built 
for  it.  I  shouldn't  dream  of  bothering  her.  And 
going  in  the  water  always  gives  me  a  cold. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  wouldn't  on  such  a  warm 
day — and  with  such  a  teacher.  Oh,  my  dear  boy 
{smiling  at  him],  I  am  perfectly  well  aware  how 
things  are  with  you. 

LEE.     With  me? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  With  you  and  Gwendolyn. 
She  is  madly  in  love  with  you. 

LEE.  Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  you  are  very  much 
mistaken. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  No,  no,  I  am  not  mistaken 
in  the  least — I  know. 

LEE.  It  is  just  your  goodness  of  heart  that 
makes  you  think  so — your  kindness.  You  have 
talked  to  me  so  much  about  her  liking  me,  but 

46 


THE    WEAK-END 


she  doesn't,  really.  She  doesn't  show  a  sign  of 
it.  She  doesn't  give  a  hang  about  me.  She 
couldn't  care  for  a  fellow  like  me. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  are  just  her  type. 
Romantic  girls  like  Gwen  always  love  soldiers. 

LEE.     I  never  even  got  to  France. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  That  wasn't  your  fault,  I'm 
sure. 

LEE.    Sick  with  the  flu  all  the  time. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  But  you  are  brave,  if  del 
icate. 

LEE  [leaning  back  dejectedly  on  a  chair  as  if  he 
wants  to  lie  down}.  Much  of  a  soldier  I  was! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  a  wonderful  looking 
soldier  and  a  beautiful  lover. 

LEE.     But  she  doesn't  think  so. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  That  is  just  your  natural 
pessimism.  You  are  the  hopeless  type  of  lover — 
and  I  will  say  that  is  the  kind  I  adore  and  so 
does  Gwen. 

LEE.  But  I  assure  you,  dear  lady,  I  am  not 
at  all  the  sort  of  man  she  would  look  at. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  is  only  your  modesty  that 
makes  you  feel  that  way,  your  modesty  and  faint 
heart.  You  know  faint  heart  never  won  fair 
lady!  But  you  have  already  won  her — you  have 
only  to  say  the  word. 

LEE  [aghast].     What? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  My  dear  boy,  she  is  per 
fectly  crazy  about  you.  Why,  she  has  told  me  so. 

LEE.     She  has  told  you  that? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  in  a  thousand  ways. 
Oh,  it  is  perfectly  obvious  to  everybody  but  you. 

47 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

LEE.    You  mean  the — the  others  have  seen  it? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Why,  they  are  all  talking 
about  it. 

LEE.     My  God! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  silly  boy,  you  are  won 
derfully  lucky.  Most  men  would  have  to  work 
hard  to  make  a  conquest,  but  here  a  sweet, 
lovely  girl  has  fallen  head  over  ears  in  love  with 
you  and  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  take  her. 

LEE.    Haven't  I?    Oh! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Only  one  thing  can  happen 
when  a  fascinating  girl  falls  in  love  with  a  man — 
his  fate  is  sealed.  If  he  is  a  chivalrous  Virginia 
gentleman  like  you,  his  honor  leaves  him  no 
choice. 

LEE  [wildly].    No  choice,  Mrs.  Winthrop! 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [with  smiling  archness].  Oh, 
these  things  seem  so  beautifully  tragic  to  youth 
— to  the  unbelieving,  despondent  lover.  My  dear, 
you  are  a  poem,  a  perfect  poem. 

LEE.     I  don't  want  to  be  a  poem. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Perhaps  not  now — you  can't 
appreciate  the  beauty  of  it — but  when  it  is  all 
happily  consummated  you  will  look  back  at  this 
time  with  a  realization  of  the  charm  of  it  and  the 
utmost  pleasure  in  it — when  you  are  happily 
married  to  her. 

LEE.    Married  to  her! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Yes,  my  dear  boy,  that  is 
how  it  is  going  to  end.  Gwen  is  coming  in  here 
in  a  moment.  You  will  like  to  walk  with  her 
down  to  the  river  before  the  others.  The  river 
is  so  romantic. 

48 


THE    WEAK-END 


LEE  [nervously  starting  to  go].     Yes,  of  course, , 
I'd  love  to,  but  I  promised  Jim  I'd  help  him  ^ 
change  a  tire  on  his  machine — I'm  afraid  he's 
waiting  for  me  now.    I'm  so  sorry,  but  I've  got 
to  go. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  stay  right  here.  I'll 
find  Jimmie,  myself,  and  tell  him  you  were  de 
tained.  Stay  here  till  I  return,  I  want  to  plan 
something  with  you.  [She  goes.  Lee  stands  in 
nervous  perturbation,  looking  non-plussed  and  wor 
ried,  when  Miss  Russell  flutters  in.  When  she  sees 
him,  she  stops  and  smiles  blissfully.] 

Miss  RUSSELL.  You  here  and  alone!  What  a 
co-accident! 

LEE  [gloomily].  The  world  seems  to  be  full  of 
co-accidents  and  coincidents  and  co-partners  and 
may  be  full  of  co-respondents. 

Miss  RUSSELL.     My  dear,  you  seem  impressed. 

LEE  \forcing  a  smile].  Oh,  not  at  all.  I'm  gay. 
But  I  suppose  everyone  gets  a  little  depressed 
occasionally. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  But  a  soldier  shouldn't — they 
are  so  self-constrained  and  capacious. 

LEE.  I  don't  believe  I  have  just  the  qualifica 
tions  of  a  soldier.  Sometimes  a  very  harmless 
fellow  is  born  into  a  family  of  politicians  and  sol 
diers.  There  was  Hamlet,  for  instance. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  my  prince — I  said  you 
were  my  prince,  you  know — I  believe  you  are  like 
Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark.  He  is  my  favorite 
hero  in  all  fiction.  He  is  so  romanesque.  I  can 
understand  and  sympathise  with  you  for  mel 
ancholy  is  my  bete  nuance,  too.  But  I  can't  bear 

49 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

to  have  you  unhappy.  I  am  very  salacious  about 
you.  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  moribund  or 
hypodermic. 

LEE  [looking  at  her  quizzically  and  with  a  slight 
frown].  I  should  hate  to  think  of  being  that 
myself.  I  wonder  what  you  do  mean? 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  I  wonder  if  I  was  using 
the  wrong  word  again.  I  make  so  many  slips  of 
the  tongue — it  is  quite  uninstitutional,  I  assure 
you,  and  I  always  know  what  I  mean. 

LEE.    That's  more  than  most  people  do. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  thank  you,  I  knew  you 
would  understand.  There  is  such  perfect  sim 
plicity  between  us,  I  feel  sure.  This  little  weak 
ness  of  mine — but  hasn't  everybody  some  little 
weakness  ? 

LEE.  Everybody  has,  and  it's  a  very  small 
one  if  it  is  only  in  words. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  you  are  so  sweet  to  me! 
Perhaps  it  is  only  pity,  but  "pity  is  akin  to  love," 
you  know.  Well,  this  little  weakness  is  inherited, 
so  you  see  it  isn't  a  wilful  fault.  My  father  had 
it — it  amounted  to  aphorism — no,  I  mean  eu 
phuism  with  him.  He  had  euphuism  in  words. 

LEE.  Oh,  my  dear  lady,  many  people  have 
that.  But,  will  you  pardon  me?  I  have  an 
engagement — 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Surely  I  mustn't  be  selfish 
with  you  when  you  are  in  so  much  command — 
so  populace.  But  you  don't  hate  me,  do  you? 

LEE.     Oh,  dear  lady,  on  the  contrary — 

Miss  RUSSELL.    You  like  me  a  little? 

LEE.    OH! 

5° 


THE    WEAK-END 


Miss  RUSSELL.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  feel? 
I  feel  that  we  are  twin  souls.  [She  holds  out  her 
handy  he  bends  over  and  kisses  it.]  Call  me  Clara! 

LEE.     Oh,  really — 

Miss  RUSSELL.    Say  it,  please  do! 

LEE.    Ah! 

Miss  RUSSELL.     Just  whisper  it! 

LEE.  Clara.  [He  ejaculates  it  and  tears  himself 
away,  fleeing  upstairs  just  as  Jerry  comes  in  from 
behind  with  Gwendolyn.] 

JERRY.     Where's  Lee? 

Miss  RUSSELL.  He's  just  gone  to  keep  an 
appointment.  He  is  so  populace. 

JERRY.  Well,  that  damned — [with  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Gwendolyn] — giraffe!  I  beg  your  pardon. 
But  he  has  such  a  beautiful  coat,  you  know,  just 
like  a  giraffe — and  lovely  eyes. 

[Miss  Russell  glances  at  him  angrily  and  goes 
upstairs.  Mrs.  Winthrop  comes  in  from  the 
porch.] 

JERRY.     Do  you  know  where  Lee  is? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  think  he  had  to  keep  an 
appointment  with  Jimmie  to  repair  a  tire. 

JERRY.     Well,  that  damned  galoot! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Gervaise! 

JERRY.  Of  course  I  mean  Jim.  I  reckon  it 
takes  a  pair  to  repair  a  tire.  It  makes  me  tired. 
All  my  efforts  in  vain. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  might  be  able  to  help 
them  and  get  through  sooner. 

JERRY.  Well,  I  might  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
I  tell  you  pretty  soon  I'm  going  swimming  whether 
anyone  else  goes  or  not. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Jerry,  bring  Leander  here 
to  me  in  about  five  minutes,  I  want  to  ask  him 
to  write  to  his  mother  for  that  recipe  for  sweet 
pickles  he  was  talking  about. 

JERRY.  All  right,  I'll  fix  him — I'll  put  a  halter 
round  his  neck.  [He  goes.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Dear,  Lee  had  faithfully 
promised  poor  unfortunate  Jimmie  to  help  him, 
but  when  he  heard  you  were  coming  in  here  he 
could  hardly  tear  himself  away.  I  have  never  in 
my  life  seen  a  young  man  so  desperately  in  love 
with  a  girl  as  he  is  with  you. 

GWENDOLYN.     Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  have  been  telling  you  all 
along  how  it  is  with  him.  It  was  love  at  first 
sight,  and  he  is  so  unhappy  because  he  thinks 
you  don't  care. 

GWENDOLYN.     But,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  I — 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Of  course  I  know  you  do, 
but  how  can  I  persuade  him  of  that?  He  ought 
to  press  his  suit  himself,  but  he  is  so  desperately 
despondent  and  shy.  I  have  never  in  my  life 
seen  a  young  man  so  shy  and  modest. 

GWENDOLYN.     But,  Mrs.  Winthrop — he — 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  he  is  mad  about  you, 
positively  mad!  He  has  told  me  all  about  it. 

GWENDOLYN  [shocked].  He  hasn't  told  you 
that? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  my  dear,  in  a  thousand 
ways.  It  is  perfectly  apparent  to  everybody. 

GWENDOLYN.  You  mean  the  others  have  no 
ticed  it? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Why,  certainly,  how  could 


THE    WEAK-END 


they  help  it?  They  are  all  talking  about  it. 
Everybody  is  so  sorry  for  him.  It  is  a  serious 
thing.  I  don't  know  what  will  happen  if  you 
refuse  him. 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  that  isn't 
possible. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Dear  girl,  it  is  not  only 
possible,  but  it  has  been  done.  Girls  don't  know 
their  responsibility.  I  know  a  case  of  suicide — 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  how  hor 
rible! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  have  known  personally  in 
my  own  experience  three  suicides  from  thwarted 
love.  He  is  a  soldier,  and  soldiers  are  so  reckless. 
And  southern  men  are  notoriously  hot-headed. 
He  is  a  Virginian,  you  know.  [Starting  to  go.] 
When  he  comes  back,  encourage  him.  Remember 
you  are  playing  with  fire.  [She  goes.  Gwendolyn 
stands  looking  distraught,  as  though  she  saw  a 
ghost y  then  turns  and  follows  Mrs.  Winthrop.  In 
a  moment  Ethel  and  Liz  appear.] 

Liz.     Do  you  know  what  she  wanted  me  for? 

ETHEL.     I  have  a  strong  suspicion. 

Liz.  Oh,  go  on  and  tell.  You  make  me  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  caught  throwing  paper  wads  at 
the  teacher  and  been  sent  for  to  appear  before 
the  principal.  You  are  so  terrifically  superior 
and  secretive,  Ethel. 

ETHEL.  Not  in  the  least.  I  only  endeavor  to 
attend  to  my  own  business. 

Liz  [giving  her  an  amused  look].  Ethel,  apropos 
of  nothing  at  all,  I  do  wish  that  aunt  of  yours — 
you  know  I  love  her  dearly — but  I  do  wish  she 

53 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

wouldn't  always  be  throwing  me  at  Jimmie 
Doolittle's  head.  Jimmie  is  a  dear  great  big 
baby,  and  of  course  I  love  him,  but  it  must  be 
embarrassing  for  him  to  have  me  hurtling  through 
the  air  at  his  head  continuously.  And  then  there 
are  other  men.  There's  that  nice  Lee  fellow — 
he's  pleasant,  even  if  he  is  in  love  with  Gwen. 
And  there's  Walter. 

ETHEL.  The  world  is  wide,  my  child.  There 
are  even  men  in  it  who  are  not  under  this  roof. 

Liz.     There  comes  your  aunt  now. 

ETHEL.  Give  her  a  gentle  hint,  she  has  one 
for  you — exchange  of  courtesies.  I  must  go,  I've 
been  neglecting  the  salad.  [She  disappears  out 
through  the  back-hall  as  Mrs.  Winthrop  enters 
from  the  porch,  followed  by  the  troubled  Gwendolyn^ 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  My  dear  [to  Gwendolyn}^  you 
are  with  me  too  much.  You  would  have  much 
more  enjoyment  with  a  certain  young  man. 

GWENDOLYN.  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  me,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  but  I  can't  bear  to 
have  you  out  of  my  sight. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  Elizabeth,  you  are  just 
the  one  I  wanted  to  talk  with  about  something. 

Liz.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  something, 
too,  Mrs.  Winthrop — I  hope  it  isn't  the  same 
thing — but  now  it  hardly  seems  worth  while. 
You  make  me  feel  inadequate.  Somehow  people 
always  make  me  feel  inadequate. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  inadequate,  Elizabeth! 
What  a  word  to  use!  Why,  I  know  you  were  an 
honor  student  at  college,  taking  all  sorts  of  prizes 

54 


THE    WEAK-END 


and  then  you  are  so  useful  and  practical  in  real 
life — just  like  Jimmie.  You  two  are  so  alike! 
[Smiling  and  shaking  her  head.}  He  can  take  an 
automobile  completely  apart. 

Liz.  Oh,  dear  me,  I'm  sure  we're  not.  I 
shouldn't  dream  of  disturbing  an  automobile's 
inward  emotions.  Those  parts  Mr.  Ford  has 
joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Elizabeth,  you  are  so  clever! 
I  only  want  you  to  have  the  best  time  in  the 
world  and  not  worry  in  the  least  about  your  dog. 
[A  scrambling  and  much  noise  is  heard  and  Ethel 
and  Jerry  enter,  the  latter  dressed  in  his  bathing- 
suit  and  dragging  or  rather  being  dragged  by  a 
strong,  pitching  young  bull-terrier  on  the  end  of  a 
piece  of  clothes-line.] 

JERRY.  Here  is  the  octopus.  I  saved  his  life — 
much  thanks  he  gave  me.  [Walter  and  Leander 
enter.} 

ETHEL.  You  oughtn't  to  have  cut  the  clothes 
line.  Maggie  will  be  more  than  vexed. 

JERRY.  Clothes-line!  I'd  have  cut  the  cord 
from  a  holy  father's  cassock  or  anything  else  to 
chain  this  charging  dinosaur.  The  servants  were 
going  to  kill  him. 

Liz.     Oh,  my  Fido! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     What  is  the  matter? 

JERRY.  He  was  cutting  up  high  jinks  in  the 
kitchen  and  stole  the  roast  of  beef  for  tomorrow's 
dinner. 

ETHEL.  Aunt,  cook  is  in  an  awful  rage.  He 
has  added  insult  to  injury — you  know  yesterday 

55 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

he  chewed  up  her  best  hat  with  poppies  on  it. 
She  is  packing  her  trunk. 

[Ange  and  Jimmie  enter.} 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  my  dear,  with  all  these 
people  in  the  house! 

JERRY.  Perhaps  you  can  pacify  her  if  you 
have  the  dog  shot. 

Liz.  Oh,  mercy,  no!  You  mustn't  shoot  Fido! 
He  is  as  innocent  as  a  baby. 

JERRY.  A  baby  with  small-pox  may  be  in 
nocent. 

Liz.  I  will  take  him  home  if  anybody  will 
drive  us. 

JERRY.  No  one  can  spare  the  time — we  are 
all  going  in  swimming. 

Liz.     One  of  the  servants,  then. 

JERRY.  You  couldn't  persuade  any  of  them  to 
go  near  him.  They  wouldn't  feel  safe  up  a  syca 
more  tree  with  this  icthyosaurus  at  the  bottom. 

LEE  [stepping forward].  Won't  you  permit  me 
to  take  charge  of  him?  I  should  love  to  be  of 
some  use  to  you  all,  and  as  I  don't  swim  and  am 
not  going  in,  I  could  watch  him. 

Liz.     Oh,  will  you? 

LEE  [smiling  and  taking  the  rope  from  Jerry]. 
I  surely  will. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  you  dear  boy,  it  is  the 
true  Virginia  gentleman  that  always  does  the 
chivalrous  thing. 

JERRY.  Now  perhaps  we  can  have  our  swim 
at  last.  Come  on,  people. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Yes,  yes,  run  along,  chil 
dren,  all  of  you  and  have  a  good  time. 

56 


THE    WEAK-END 


ETHEL  [to  Mrs.  Winthrop\.  Perhaps  you  can 
persuade  cook  to  stay.  You'd  better  try.  [They 
all  start  to  go.] 

Liz  [to  Lee  as  they  go].  If  you  can  just  hold  him 
till  I  get  a  chance  to  take  him  home! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Maybe  Jimmie  can  arrange 
to  drive  you  in  this  evening  by  moonlight  in  his 
Ford. 

[They  all  go  and  Miss  Gotts chalk  enters  with  a 
book  in  her  hand.] 

Miss  GOTTS  CHALK.  Where  are  they  all  going 
now? 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [shrieking  to  her].  They  are 
going  in  bathing. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     Are  they  all  going  in? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  All  except  Leander  Lee — he 
doesn't  swim. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  He  impresses  me  as  being 
a  young  man  who  couldn't  swim. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  He  says  going  into  the  water 
always  gives  him  a  cold. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  He  impresses  me  as  being 
a  young  man  who  would  take  very  good  care  of 
his  health.  It  is  dull  that  they  all  want  to  go  in 
swimming.  I  should  think  some  of  them  would 
want  to  play  a  quiet  game  of  bridge  on  so  hot  an 
afternoon.  There  is  Lee  and  you  and  I — Ethel 
plays  very  well,  she  would  make  a  fourth  hand. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Leander  has  to  take  care  of 
Liz  Smith's  dog — it  has  been  doing  all  sorts  of 
damage. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  He  doesn't  impress  me  as 
57 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

a  young  man   who   would   have   much   control 
over  a  dog. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  It  has  destroyed  Maggie's 
hat,  [always  shouting  at  her]  dug  up  a  rose-bed, 
chased  the  cows,  mauled  Giovanni,  stolen  a  roast 
of  beef,  and  I  don't  know  what  all.  Leander  is 
going  to  hold  it  till  it  can  be  taken  home. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  He  doesn't  impress  me  as 
being  the  sort  of  young  man  who  could  hold  on 
to  anything. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  must  go  interview  Maggie 
— she  is  packing  her  trunk  to  leave.  Do  you 
think  you  could  manage  to  hear  the  telephone? 
There  is  no  one  else  about. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  I  sometimes  don't  hear 
the  bell  if  it  is  going  to  be  bothersome.  But  you 
know  very  well  I  hear  over  the  telephone  better 
than  the  other  way.  The  wire  seems  to  eliminate 
the  usual  mushiness  of  the  human  voice. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [rushing  in].  Oh,  Helen,  there 
is  a  perfect  category!  Giovanni  is  starting  for 
town — he  is  going  into  a  factotum.  He  says 
better  are  men  with  machines  than  a  rose-garden 
with  lions.  Maggie  says  she  will  not  work  in  a 
hotel  for  hyenas.  All  the  servants  are  in  a  perfect 
stage  and  are  going  to  leave. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  Clara,  I  do  wish  you 
would  try  to  think  of  your  words  a  little.  You 
will  drive  me  crazy  with  your  absurd  vocabulary. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  you  think  too  much  of 
vocabulary.  It  is  really  a  very  small  matter. 
Mr.  Lee  says  so.  He  thinks  little  mistakes  are 
quite  uninopportune. 

58 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.     He  does,  does  he? 

Miss  RUSSELL.  To  him  my  little  misrepre 
sentations  are  altogether  charming. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Clara,  you  surprise  me. 
What  in  the  world  can  you  have  to  talk  about 
with  that  young  man? 

Miss  RUSSELL.  We  have  a  great  deal  to  talk 
about.  Don't  think  because  you  are  a  widow 
that  other  women  are  not  interested  in  men. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     At  your  age! 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  am  younger  than  you,  you 
remember — two  classes  below  you.  Age  has 
nothing  to  do  with  propinquity,  and  that  is  it, 
you  see — I  am  his  propinquity. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     This  is  shocking! 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Not  at  all.  Detractions, 
though  inexculpable,  are  perfectly  natural.  He 
and  I  are  wholly  congenital. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  will  you  drive  me  abso 
lutely  mad  with  your  crazy  words,  when  I  am 
already  nearly  frantic?  Go  and  stop  Giovanni. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [bursting  into  tears].  Do  you 
attack  me?  Merciful  Heavens!  This  is  the  last 
stroke!  I  shall  leave  you!  I  shall  become  a  nun! 
Better  are  clustered  walls  than  the  home  of  a 
friend  who  insinuates  one! 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [looking  at  the  weeping  Miss 
Russell}.  Don't  be  a  goose. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  will  talk  to  you  later. 
Now  go  at  once  and  persuade  Giovanni  to  stay. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  wonder  [with  dignity]  that 
you  think  me  culpable  of  assuaging  anything. 
[She  goes  weeping.] 

59 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  And  don't  let  your  mind 
dwell  on  Lee.  He  is  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Gwendolyn  and  at  the  present  minute  he  has 
gone  in  swimming  with  her. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Mercy,  he  can't  swim!  He 
told  me  so.  Oh,  he  is  in  danger!  Oh,  you  have 
probably  sent  him  to  his  death! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Nonsense.  He  is  in  no  more 
danger  of  his  death  than  if  he  were  in  a  bathtub. 
And  we  cannot  think  of  such  foolish  little  things 
when  all  the  domestic  arrangements  are  so  topsy 
turvy.  I  cannot  lose  all  my  servants.  Go  and 
talk  to  Giovanni.  [Miss  Russell  makes  her  exit.] 
If  Maggie  goes  I  don't  know  what  in  the  world 
I  shall  do.  She  has  been  with  me  twenty  years. 
It  will  break  up  the  party.  It  will  break  up 
everything. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [who  has  heard  only  in  part}. 
Did  you  say  you  are  going  to  break  up?  That 
will  suit  me.  Then  we  can  go  to  Atlantic  City. 
Atlantic  City  will  be  quieter.  [Mrs.  Winthrop 
starts  to  go.  Miss  Gotts chalk  settles  herself  on  the 
couch  and  reads  her  novel.  In  a  few  moments  the 
telephone  bell  rings.  She  does  not  hear  it  for  some 
time.  At  last  she  looks  up  and  around  with  a  listen 
ing  expression  on  her  face,  turns  her  head  on  one 
side,  finally  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  telephone} 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Did  the  bell  ring?  [She 
speaks  slowly  and  in  a  loud  monotonous  voice.] 
I  mean  the  telephone  bell — did  it  ring? — You 
will  have  to  speak  clearly  and  distinctly.  [She 
speaks  as  one  accustomed  to  being  obeyed.]  I  say, 
speak  clearly  and  distinctly.  You  sound  as 

60 


THE    WEAK-END 


though  you  were  chewing  gum — if  you  are,  take 
it  out. — Don't  mouth  your  words,  don't  talk  as 
though  your  mouth  were  full  of  hot  apple-sauce. 
— This  is  Mrs.  Winthrop's  house. — Miss  Gwen 
dolyn  Robertson? — Yes,  she  is  visiting  here.  I 
can't  get  her  for  you — she  is  in  the  water. — I  am 
not  going  after  her  or  anybody. — You  will  have 
to  put  up  with  me.  [Listens  in  a  bored  manner 
for  a  few  moments  \ — How  do  I  know  you  are  her 
fiance?  She  has  one  here.  I  suppose  a  girl  likes 
to  have  more  than  one  beau,  though  I  should 
think  one  would  be  enough  of  a  bore.  I  should 
think  she  would  be  wise  enough  to  pick  one  that 
could  play  bridge — it's  surer  than  love  to  count 
on  for  after  years. — I  can't  hear  what  you  say. — 
Oh,  I  suppose  you  are  the  young  man  she  was 
talking  silly  nonsense  to  a  while  ago.  Well,  I 
am  the  stone-deaf  old  woman  she  referred  to. 
She  strikes  me  as  being  the  sort  of  young  woman 
who  would  get  herself  engaged  to  whatever  hap 
pened  to  be  about.  She's  probably  engaged  to  a 
dozen.  She  is  engaged  to  this  one. — My  young 
man,  there  are  high  jinks  going  on  here. — You 
are  in  Chicago,  four  hundred  miles  away? — Well, 
I  can't  help  that,  I  am  not  responsible  for  the 
geography  of  the  country. — I  can't  hear  you. — 
No,  I  am  not  going  after  anybody  else. — I  am 
tired  of  making  an  effort  to  hear  you — you  still 
talk  as  if  you  were  eating  something. — I  cannot 
bother  with  you  any  longer.  I  am  nothing  but  a 
stone-deaf  old  woman.  Goodbye.  [She  hangs  up 
the  receiver,  goes  back  to  the  couch,  takes  up  her  book 
and  reads  again.  In  a  moment  the  bell  rings.  She 

61 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

listens  as  before  and  finally  gets  up  and  picks  up 
the  receiver^  Well,  well,  well,  did  this  telephone 
bell  ring  again? — Yes,  I  told  you  before  it  is  Mrs. 
Winthrop's  house. — Oh,  it  is  a  girl  this  time. — 
No,  I  can't  call  Mr.  Leander  Lee. — Why  can't  I 
call  him?  Because  I  don't  want  to. — Yes,  he  is 
here  somewhere.  He  is  busy  holding  a  dog.  He 
is  also  busy  making  love  to  a  girl. — Oh,  I  suppose 
you  are  the  young  woman  he  was  talking  such 
arrant  nonsense  to  a  while  ago.  Well,  I  am  the 
stone-deaf  old  woman  he  remarked  upon. — If  you 
are  his  fiancee  you'd  better  look  to  your  laurels. 
He  is  engaged  to  this  one  out  here.  He  strikes 
me  as  being  the  sort  of  young  man  who  might 
get  into  almost  any  engagement.  He  probably 
has  a  dozen  sweethearts. — At  least  he  is  engaged 
to  this  one  here. — I  can't  help  it  if  you  are  in 
Virginia,  four  hundred  miles  away,  the  world  is 
large. — I  am  not  going  to  talk  to  you  any  longer. 
You  enunciate  as  if  your  nose  was  packed  with 
antiphlogistine.  Perhaps  it  is  tears,  they  produce 
the  same  effect. — These  love  affairs  are  a  great 
nuisance. — Remember  I  am  only  a  stone-deaf  old 
woman.  [She  calmly  hangs  up  the  receiver  and 
goes  back  to  her  couch  and  reads.  In  a  Jew  minutes 
Ange  and  Jimmie  come  tearing  in,  breathless  and 
excited^  from  the  porch)  and  Mrs.  Winthrop  appears 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs.] 

ANGE  [fairly  sobbing].  Oh,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  we 
were  nearly  frightened  to  death. 

JIMMIE  [his  eyes  fairly  starting  out  of  his  head\. 
We  have  come  back  to  break  the  news  to  you. 
There  has  been  a  horrible  accident. 

62 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh!  oh!  What  is  it?  Tell 
me!  Not  Jerry? 

JIMMIE.     No,  it  wasn't  Jerry. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Oh,  oh,  who? 

JIMMIE.  It  was  Lee.  He  fell  into  the  water — 
into  the  big  hole. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  mercy — he  can't  swim! 
Oh,  heavens,  he  is  drowned !  [Wringing  her  hands.] 

JIMMIE.  Drowned,  yes,  drowned!  And  badly 
hurt. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [shrieking].    Oh! 

ANGE.  No,  no,  he  isn't  drowned — not  quite. 
Jimmie,  you  perfect  idiot,  you  have  frightened 
her  to  death. 

JIM.    Well,  you  told  me  to  break  it  to  her. 

ANGE.    You  have — like  a  battering-ram. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [wringing  her  hands].  Oh, 
merciful  heavens,  one  accident  after  another. 

JIM  [to  Ange].  You  do  nothing  but  find  fault 
with  me  when  you  know  I  think  everything  you 
do  is  right. 

ANGE.  I'm  not  finding  fault  with  you,  but 
you  oughtn't  to  have  said  he  was  drowned. 

JIM.     I  didn't  say  exactly  that. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me!  Don't 
stand  there  and  cavil  at  each  other.  Can't  you 
see  I'm  in  an  agony  of  suspense? 

JIM.  Well,  you  know,  Jerry  had  been  crazy 
about  a  swimming  party  and  had  been  trying  to 
get  one  up  all  day  and  never  seemed  to  be  able  to 
get  the  bunch  together  and — 

ANGE.     Oh,  Jimmie,  let  me  tell  it! 

JIM.    Nobody  ever  lets  me  tell  anything. 

63 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

ANGE.  We  were  all  going  in  swimming,  some 
of  us  were  in.  Leander  was  standing  on  the  bank 
with  Fido  when  that  awful  dog  jumped  against 
him — 

JIM.  The  dog  was  only  playing,  you  under 
stand,  he  isn't  really  savage — he  didn't  mean  to 
attack  him — but — 

ANGE.  The  dog  jumped  against  him  and 
pushed  him  over — he  lost  his  balance,  fell  and 
rolled  over  and  over  right  in — into  the  deep  hole. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [shrieking  again].  I  knew  it,  I 
knew  he  would  be  drowned — I  had  a  permuta 
tion  of  it! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     He  doesn't  swim — oh,  oh! 

JIM.  And  had  all  his  clothes  on,  even  his  hat, 
though  of  course  his  hat  fell  off. 

ANGE  {frowning  at  Jim].  He  went  down,  dis 
appeared — came  up — and  went  down  again. 

Miss  RUSSELL.     Oh!     [Shrieks  again.] 

JIM.  If  they  go  down  the  third  time  they 
never  come  up. 

ANGE.  Gwen  jumped  in  after  him — she  grabbed 
him  by  his  coat  and  the  coat  came  off,  he  made 
such  a  fuss  and  floundered  so — then  she  tried  to 
catch — 

JIM.  Then  she  tried  to  catch  him  by  the  hair, 
but  his  hair  was  too  short — 

ANGE.  At  last  she  got  him  by  the  collar  of  his 
shirt — 

JIM.  He  was  scrambling  and  floundering  and 
making  so  much  fuss  and  wild  dives  to  get  hold 
of  her,  so  she  had  a  hard  time  to  keep  clear  of  him. 

ANGE.  He  quite  lost  his  head,  of  course,  but  she 
64 


THE    WEAK-END 


was  very  cool  and  swam  to  shore  with  him  and 
pulled  him  out. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  If  only  I  had  taken  charge  of 
the  dog. 

JIM.    Then  the  dog  would  have  charged  you. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  We  might  both  have  been 
upset  and  fallen  into  the  water  and  drowned 
together. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  She  saved  him,  then,  she 
saved  him!  How  romantic! 

JIM.  Well,  of  course,  if  she  hadn't,  Jerry  or 
Walter  would  have. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     But  it  was  she! 

Miss  RUSSELL.  It  is  just  her  luck.  She  is 
fortuitous.  I  never  was. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     And  he  is  saved! 

JIM.  If  he  doesn't  have  concussion  of  the  brain 
from  hitting  his  head  against  that  stone,  or 
doesn't  develop  pneumonia — 

Miss  RUSSELL.     Oh,  did  he  hit  his  head? 

JIM.     Yes,  and  cut  it  awfully. 

ANGE.     Here  they  come. 

[Gwendolyn,  Jerry,  Liz,  Walter,  and  Leander 
enter.  Liz  and  Walter  are  dressed  in  their 
ordinary  clothes,  Walter  is  as  immaculate  as 
ever,  Jerry  is  wet  with  bath-towels  wrapped 
around  his  bathing  suit,  Gwendolyn  and  Le 
ander  pale  and  dripping,  with  long,  black  rain 
coats  on,  collars  turned  up.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [hurrying  to  Lee].  Oh,  my 
dear,  what  an  escape!  How  thrilling  and  dramatic 
and  romantic!  It  seems  to  have  been  directed 
wholly  by  Providence! 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

[Miss  Russell  also  hurries  to  Leander  and  hovers 
about  him  sighing  and  moaning  and  purring^ 

JERRY.  Well,  by  gum,  I  reckon  Providence 
chased  the  cows,  too,  and  dug  up  the  flower-bed, 
and  chewed  up  the  best  summer  hat,  and  ate  the 
roast!  Sportive  Providence! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Gervaise!  Don't  be  blas 
phemous. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  had  an  in 
timidation  of  all  this,  I  might  have  taken  care  of 
that  dog  myself  and  the  entire  accident  would 
have  been  perverted.  Oh,  you  have  cut  your 
head  on  a  wicked  stone  or  something,  too.  [There 
is  a  slight  abrasion  on  Lee 's  forehead  and  already  it 
is  beginning  to  swell.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  must  lie  right  here 
[to  Lee]  and  rest  and  have  Gwendolyn  take 
care  of  you.  Jerry,  dear,  get  him  a  glass  of 
whisky. 

JERRY.  But,  Aunt,  you  forget  we're  dry — 
don't  you  remember  that  last  social  worker 
you  entertained  stole  all  you  had  left.  There 
isn't  a  drop  to  make  a  mosquito  drunk. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Then  he  must  lie  right  down 
here. 

JERRY.     But,  Aunt,  he's  wet. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  There's  more  hubbub  here 
than  a  deaf  old  woman  can  stand.  [Getting  up.] 
I'm  going.  If  the  young  man  has  had  a  ducking 
you  ought  to  give  him  a  good  pint  of  whisky  and 
put  him  to  bed  between  blankets.  He  will  prob 
ably  be  drunk,  but  it  will  be  good  for  him.  He 
doesn't  impress  me  as  a  young  man  who  could 

66 


THE    WEAK-END 


stand  a  ducking  and  not  more  than  a  teaspoonful 
of  whisky. 

LEE.    I  don't  want  any  whisky — I  never  drink. 

JERRY.  Don't  worry,  my  boy,  we  don't  any 
of  us. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  He  can  lie  right  here  and  be 
quiet  and  comfy  and  have  a  cup  of  tea. 

WALTER.  But  he  will  have  to  change  his 
clothes,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  he's  dripping. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  well,  then,  after  all,  I 
think  it  will  be  best  to  put  him  to  bed  and  nurse 
him. 

LEE.    I  don't  want  to  be  put  to  bed  and  nursed. 

WALTER.  At  least  you'll  consent  to  dry 
clothes  ? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Come,  you  must  remove 
these  dripping  ones  and  put  on  something  dry. 
I  will  take  care  of  you.  [She  seizes  them  each  by 
the  arm  and  marches  them  out  through  the  back  hall. 
Miss  Russell  runs  after  them  and  puts  her  hand 
on  Lee's  shoulder  as  they  go.  Ethel,  entering, 
passes  them,  stops  to  look  at  them  enquiringly,  then 
comes  on  in.] 

ETHEL  [in  her  calm  tone].  Well,  what  in  heck 
has  happened  now? 

ANGE.  Oh,  such  an  excitement!  Liz's  dog 
pushed  Leander  into  the  river. 

Liz.  My  poor  innocent  Fido!  I  wonder  where 
he  is? 

JERRY.  Innocent  as  a  Bengal  tiger!  And  Aunt 
said  it  was  Providence. 

ETHEL.  But  the  river  is  shallow  and  today  is 
hot — why  the  agitation? 

6? 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY.  Leander  doesn't  know  how  to  use  his 
fins. 

ANGE.  And  he  fell  square  into  the  deep, 
round  hole. 

JERRY.  Gwen  fished  him  out,  and  if  that  doesn't 
bring  him  to  time,  nothing  will.  I  must  get  some 
duds  on. 

WALTER.  I  should  think  you'd  better — you're 
a  sight. 

JERRY.  I'm  not  the  swift  little  dresser  you  are. 
Walter  went  into  the  bath-house  and  put  on  his 
tie  and  his  right  mind  while  the  rest  of  us  were 
getting  our  breath  after  the  ducking. 

ETHEL.    But  are  they  really  all  right  now? 

JIM.  All  right  till  they  go  down  with  pneu 
monia  or  Lee  develops  concussion  of  the  brain. 
He  says  his  head  hit  a  stone  when  he  went 
down. 

JERRY.     Hard  on  the  stone. 

JIM.  Seems  to  me  he  acts  dazed  and  queer 
now. 

JERRY.  He  always  acts  that  way — it's  his 
normal  condition. 

Liz.  You  all  take  it  as  a  joke  and  it  might 
have  been  a  tragedy. 

WALTER.  It  may  be  yet.  It's  no  laughing 
matter. 

ETHEL.  Walter,  are  you  fooling  just  for  the 
fun  of  scaring  us  or  do  you  really  mean  it? 

WALTER.     No,  I  mean  it. 

JERRY.  Of  course,  he  always  means  it,  good 
old  serious-minded  Walter. 

WALTER.  It  was  a  serious  matter.  She  had 
68 


THE    WEAK-END 


all  she  could  do  to  get  him  out.     He  was  very 
nearly  drowned. 

Liz.    Why  didn't  you  plunge  in  and  help? 

WALTER.  She  was  managing  better  than  any 
of  us  could.  She  is  a  better  swimmer  than  I  am. 
I  thought  I  would  be  of  more  use  when  she  got 
him  to  shore  to  help  her  out.  She's  a  wonderful 
swimmer.  But  he! — I  never  saw  such  a  scared 
man. 

ETHEL.    But  they  are  all  right  now. 

WALTER.  Well,  no,  you  can't  tell.  It  must 
have  been  a  nervous  shock  to  both  of  them,  and 
he  struck  his  head  against  a  stone  or  root. 

JIM  [gloomily].  He  told  me  he  had  a  bad 
heart. 

JERRY.  Sure  he  has — soft — soft  as  the  under 
side  of  a  cake  of  soap  and  as  mushy. 

JIM.  Well,  I  guess  he's  queered  the  party — we 
might  as  well  all  go  home. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [re-entering,  smiling  in  ec 
static  pleasure].  After  all  their  vicissitudes  the 
little  ship  of  love  has  come  safely  into  port.  It 
is  finally  settled.  He  feels  that  he  owes  his  life 
to  her. 

ETHEL.  But  are  they  all  right?  Won't  they 
both  be  sick? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  I  hope  not.  Of  course 
he  will  need  care,  but  it  will  be  her  delight  to 
give  him  that.  He  feels  he  owes  his  life  to  her 
and  he  is  so  grateful.  They  are  both  so  sweet 
about  it. 

JERRY.     Are  they  actually  engaged? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Oh,  yes  indeed. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY.  Well,  I  always  think  there  is  many  a 
skid  'twixt  the  car  and  the  curb. 

JIM.     How  about  Gwen? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  she  is  so  happy.  She 
feels  that  he  must  be  taken  care  of  and  Providence 
has  evidently  selected  her  to  do  it. 

JERRY.    Providence  tried  it  on  the  dog  first. 

Liz.     But  are  they  really  happy? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.    Oh,  in  the  seventh  Heaven! 

JERRY.  Out  of  the  deep  hole  into  the  seventh 
Heaven. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Every  cloud  has  a  silver 
lining. 

JERRY.  Well,  Lee  has  acted  as  if  he  were 
under  a  cloud. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [running  in  breathless],  Liz's 
dog! — He  has  chased  Hermione's  cat  into  her 
room — he  has  got  her  treed  on  top  of  the  tall 
secretary  now — the  cat,  not  Hermione — he 
knocked  over  a  Brokewood  vase  and  a  lamp, 
smashed  them,  tore  up  a  eiderdown  quilt — 
feathers  everywhere  even  out  in  the  hall — I 
couldn't  tell  you  all — the  room  looks  like  the 
wrath  of  God.  [Ethel  goes  out.] 

Liz  [frantically].  Oh,  will  anybody  take  us 
home?  [Appealing  to  them.]  Anybody?  Right 
away? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  James,  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  for  you  to  take  her  now  and  not  wait  for 
the  moonlight. 

Liz.  Oh,  all  right.  Fido  and  I  might  as  well 
be  smashed  up  on  the  road  as  end  on  the  gallows. 

JIM  [crossly].    Come  on,  then.     [They  start  out, 
70 


THE    WEAK-END 


and  Miss  Gottschalk  enters,  carrying  her  cat,  a 
large  Angora^ 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  I  am  going  to  Atlantic 
City.  You  can  stay  at  home  if  you  prefer,  but 
this  hubbub  here  is  too  much  for  me.  I'm  going 
to  a  quieter  place.  I  could  stand  the  dancing 
and  telephoning — two  silly  creatures  called  up, 
perfectly  unimportant,  and  talked  for  hours,  I 
could  stand  the  general  disturbance  and  young 
men  getting  drowned,  but  the  dog  is  too  much. 
If  you  have  succeeded  in  persuading  any  of  the 
servants  to  stay,  will  you  have  my  room  straight 
ened  up  a  bit?  It  is  powdered  with  feathers.  I 
suppose  I  shan't  be  able  to  get  off  before  to 
morrow.  [She  sits  down  with  her  cat.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.    Now  don't  be  silly,  dear! 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  I  am  not  silly — I  am  never 
silly. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Don't  break  things  up — 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.    I  never  break  things  up. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  — just  as  things  are  begin 
ning  to  run  smoothly. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Tomasso  ran  smoothly. 
[Stroking  her  cat.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  have  sent  the  dog  away, 
[shouting]  do  you  hear?  The  dog  is  going  home. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     I  hope  so. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Your  room  shall  be  arranged 
at  once.  Don't  worry. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     I  never  worry. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Don't  think  of  running  away 
now  when  everything  is  coming  out  all  right. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.    I  don't  think  he's  out  yet. 

71 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  here  they  come!  Now 
don't  make  a  scene!  See  for  yourselves  how  happy 
they  are!  Congratulations  are  in  order! 

[Lee  and  Gwendolyn  appear ',  both  looking  -pale  and 
miserable.  He  has  on  a  long  sky-blue  lady's 
bathrobe  of  corduroy.  The  others  all  gather 
round  them  and  congratulate  them  with  "good 
lucky  old  man"y  "come  in,  the  water  s  fine", 
"best  wishes",  "all  the  happiness  in  the  world", 
etc.  Jim  sings,  flatting  dolefully  and  in  a 
rough  voice,  "Here  comes  the  bride"  Lee  and 
Gwendolyn  accept  it  all  nervously,  wanly,  with 
very  artificial  smiles.] 

LEE.  But,  Mrs.  Winthrop,  I  can't  wear  this 
thing!  [Holding  up  the  bathrobe.]  It  is  smother 
ing  me. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  must  be  kept  warm, 
dear.  [To  the  others.]  It  is  Gwen's  and  [to  him] 
she  loves  to  have  you  wear  it. 

GWENDOLYN.  I  really  don't  need  it  in  the 
least. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Now  you  lie  down,  dear, 
and  rest. 

LEE.  I  don't  need  to  rest.  I'd  rather  stand. 
MRS.  WINTHROP  [forcing  him  to  lie  down  on  the 
couch].  And  you  sit  here,  dear,  and  calm  him 
and  take  care  of  him.  [Placing  Gwendolyn  in  a 
chair  by  the  couch.]  I  think  you'd  better  be 
starting,  Jimmie,  if  you  expect  to  get  there  to 
night. 

JIM.  All  right.  Come  on,  Liz.  [Jim  and  Liz 
go  out.] 

72 


THE    WEAK-END 


JERRY  [to  them  as  they  go].  I'll  help  you  find 
the  dog. 

WALTER.     We'd  better  all  help. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Yes,  do  go,  all  of  you.  Lee 
needs  perfect  quiet.  [ They  all  go.]  Come  with 
me,  Hermione,  and  we  will  see  to  your  room. 
[She  takes  Miss  Gottschalk  by  the  arm  and  leads 
her  to  the  stairs  and  up.] 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [as  they  go,  she  carrying  her 
cat.}  Tomasso  will  not  be  safe  till  that  dog  is 
back  in  town. 

[Miss  Russell  has  remained  and  sidled  up  to  the 
couch,  where  she  stands  patting  the  pillows, 
when  Mrs.  Winthrop  looks  back,  sees  her  and 
stops.  Miss  Gottschalk  goes  on  upstairs.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Clara,  he  must  be  kept  very 
quiet,  so  will  you  come  with  me,  please? 

Miss  RUSSELL.     Oh,  I  will  not  incite  him. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Perhaps  you  won't  intend 
to,  but  you  know  you  can't  keep  from  talking. 
He  is  very  nervous  and  must  be  kept  perfectly 
still.  Any  conversation  will  excite  him. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Then  why  not  leave  him  en 
tirely  alone? 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Gwendolyn  belongs  by  his 
side.  They  are  betrothed.  She  is  going  to  sit 
by  him  and  watch  him. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  can  do  that  and  retrieve  her 
so  she  can  go  and  join  her  young  companions — 
I  know  you  want  your  guests  to  have  a  good  time 
— and  I  have  nothing  else  to  do. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  But,  Clara,  your  letters — 
those  important — 

73 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  did  them  all  this  morning — 
I  hurried  so  I  could  have  the  afternoon  free. 
Besides,  he  needs  more  mature  attention.  His 
wounds  have  not  been  dressed.  [A  little  blood  has 
oozed  from  Lee's  forehead  "where  there  was  a  small 
scratch^ 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  will  send  a  bandage  for 
Gwen  to  apply. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  You  needn't — I  will  imply 
first  aid.  [She  takes  out  two  clean  handkerchiefs.] 
I  always  carry  two  in  order  to  be  able  to  lend  one 
in  case  of  necessity.  [She  knots  them  together.} 
Very  often  someone  needs  an  extra  handkerchief 
or  toothbrush  or  something.  [She  begins  to  tie  it 
about  Lee's  head.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Clara,  you  must  leave  him 
alone. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [almost  weeping].  But  I  want 
so  much  to  take  care  of  him  and  I'm  sure  he 
doesn't  object — do  you?  [To  Lee.] 

LEE.  Oh,  on  the  contrary,  I  should  like  it  so 
much. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  There,  you  see.  I  knew  he 
wanted  me.  You  don't  understand.  We  are 
absolute  infirmities,  he  and  I. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Clara! 

LEE.  Oh,  please  let  her  stay,  Mrs.  Winthrop. 
I  do  want  her.  I — I — feel  I  may  need  her. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  There,  you  have  heard  his 
plea.  I  didn't  like  to  make  it  all  so  pointed. 
But  we  both  want  each  other.  He  needs  me — 
needs  my  animadversions — he — [with  caressing 
gestures  about  Lee's  head  and  shoulders^ 

74 


THE    WEAK-END 


MRS.  WINTHROP.  Clara,  come  with  me — I 
have  work  for  you  to  do — a  most  important 
letter.  Come !  [Sternly.] 

Miss  RUSSELL.  I  will  go  with  her  and  do  my 
duty — the  duty  of  my  position  [to  Mrs.  Winthrop], 
but  [to  Lee]  I  will  return  to  you — sweetheart! 
[She  follows  Mrs.  Winthrop  up  the  stairs,  gazing 
back  at  Lee  and  throws  him  an  impassioned  kiss. 
He  looks  after  her  with  an  expression  that  might  be 
construed  to  mean  either  intense  trouble  or  intense 
longing.  Lee  and  Gwendolyn  are  left  alone  together 
and  for  a  few  minutes  they  furtively  glance  at  each 
other  and  then  away  in  constrained  embarrassment, 
catch  each  other's  eye,  and  turn  away,  look  troubled, 
worried,  unhappy,  afraid  each  of  the  other  and 
terribly  nervous.] 

LEE  [speaking  at  last  with  deep  emotion  and  em 
barrassment].  It  is  the  first  time  I  was  ever — in 
— such — er — a  situation.  You — you  saved  my 
life. 

GWENDOLYN  [also  deeply  moved  and  nervous]. 
Oh,  I- 

LEE.  You  endangered  your  own  life  for  such 
a  worthless  thing  as  my  life! 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  your  life 
that  way!  You  mustn't  ever  think  of  com 
mitting  suicide  again! 

LEE.  If  you  knew  all  about  me  you  would 
think  I  might  as  well. 

GWENDOLYN  [wildly].  Oh,  don't  talk  that  way 
— please,  please  don't! 

LEE.  Honestly,  for  your  own  sake,  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  mind  whatever  happens  to  me. 

75 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  please,  please  don't  bother 
about  me,  but  promise  you  won't  ever  try  to  do 
it  again! 

LEE.  I  know  what  I  owe  you — but  why  you 
ever  cared  to  save  such  a  worthless  thing  as  my 
life— 

GWENDOLYN.    Oh,  it — it  was  nothing — 

[CURTAIN  TO  ACT  II.] 


ACT  III. 

[In  the  same  old  hall.  It  is  the  afternoon  of 
the  next  day — a  blazing  hot  summer  Sunday — 
rather  late.  All  alone  sitting  in  a  large  bamboo 
rocking-chair ',  Jerry,  looking  rather  bored,  de 
tached,  troubled,  is  strumming  a  ukelele.  He 
strums  a  little  and  at  intervals  hums  a  little 
"Dese  bones  shall  rise  again."  Ethel  comes  in 
carrying  a  tall  glass  of  limeade.] 

JERRY.  It's  hotter  than  ever.  "Dese  bones 
shall  rise  again."  It  was  as  hot  as  hell  Friday, 
hotter  Saturday,  hottest  today.  There's  got  to 
be  a  thunder  storm  to  clear  the  air. 

ETHEL.     Indications  point  to  a  psychic  storm. 

JERRY.  There  ought  to  be  a  ripping  thunder 
storm  and,  by  Jove,  it's  coming.  I  heard  thunder 
a  while  ago. 

ETHEL.  Are  you  sure  it  wasn't  Liz's  dog? 
Where  did  you  put  him? 

JERRY.  I've  got  him  chained  in  the  cow- 
stable.  Ever  since  yesterday  Hermione's  cat 

76 


THE    WEAK-END 


has  been  perching  on  the  top  of  the  secretary 
and  nobody  can  get  her  down.  She's  living  on  a 
higher  plane.  It's  so  hot  I  pretty  nearly  don't 
blame  you  for  drinking  that  stuff.  Give  me  a  sip. 

ETHEL.  I  hate  the  sort  of  people  who  ask  you 
for  a  bite  or  sip  of  something  somebody  else  has. 
Why  don't  you  go  out  and  get  yourself  a  glass? 

JERRY.  I'm  afraid  of  Maggie.  Ever  since  I 
prevented  her  from  braining  the  dog  with  a 
skillet  I  don't  dare  go  near  the  kitchen,  and  if  I 
sent  she'd  put  poison  in  the  lime.  It's  a  limentable 
situation. 

ETHEL.  I  don't  know  why  Liz  ever  consented 
to  let  Jim  try  to  take  her  back.  I  knew  when 
they  started  there  would  be  an  accident. 

JERRY.  Whoever  rides  out  with  Jim,  has  to 
walk  back.  Liz  must  have  enjoyed  the  five- 
mile  saunter.  She  says  Jim  never  stopped  one 
second  on  the  way  explaining  just  how  the  acci 
dent  happened.  There  wasn't  a  nut  or  screw  or 
wire  or  bolt  he  didn't  mention  lovingly  by  name. 
Jim's  grand  on  post  mortems.  [After  a  moment's 
pause,  he  sings ,  "Dese  bones  shall  rise  again"] 

ETHEL.    Where  is  Aunt? 

JERRY.     Search  me. 

ETHEL.  Promoting,  I  guess.  She  had  an  id£e 
fixe — in  fact  a  whole  nest  of  them,  and  she's 
counting  her  chickens  before  they're  hatched. 
[After  a  pause.]  I  wonder  where  everybody  is  ? 

JERRY.  Hiding,  I  guess.  [Suddenly.]  The 
trouble  with  this  week-end  is  that  it  began  on 
Friday  the  thirteenth.  We  didn't  notice  and 
Fate  threatens. 

77 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

ETHEL.  She  threatens  and  threatens  like  your 
thunder  storm  that  never  comes. 

JERRY.  We  have  got  a  little  used  to  threaten 
ing — but  I  tell  you  we  needn't  be  so  sure  even  yet 
that  Leander  won't  be  drowned  or  hanged  or 
poisoned.  I  tell  you  my  storm  is  coming  and 
something  is  going  to  drop.  "Dese  bones  shall 
rise  again." 

ETHEL.  Maybe  Clara  will  elope  with  Leander. 
That  is  positively  the  most  sickening  affair  I  ever 
knew.  I  do  loathe  a  sentimental  old  maid. 

JERRY.  I  don't  know — I  rather  like  a  little 
sentiment  in  women  of  any  age.  In  my  ac 
quaintance  it  is  rather  rare.  [With  a  sharp  look 
at  her.]  It  is  a  grumbling  old  lady  I  can't  stand 
— now  Hermione  gets  my  goat  with  her  eternal 
grouch.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  that  sort. 

ETHEL.  Don't  worry,  Jerry,  I  shall  be  a  flip 
pant  old  lady. 

[Miss  Russell  whisks  in  from  the  back-hall  and 
peers  about  quickly,  like  a  bird.] 

JERRY.    Whom  are  you  looking  for,  Clara? 

Miss  RUSSELL  [coyly].    Oh,  nobody. 

JERRY.  No,  now,  Clara!  I  know  whom  you 
are  looking  for.  You  better  look  out.  Aunt  has 
different  designs  on  him.  And  he's  engaged. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Whatever  may  be  her  inter 
jections  she  can't  always  patrol  affairs  of  the 
heart.  Sometimes  an  infirmity  occurs  that  is 
wholly  inexculpable. 

JERRY.  Am  I  to  infer  that  you  and  Lee  are 
infirmities? 

Miss  RUSSELL  [with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders  and 
78 


THE    WEAK-END 


a  gay  smile  at  the  ceiling.  Oh,  you  may  infer 
anything  you  like.  Besides,  he  needs  my  atten 
tion  and  care.  He  had  a  high  temperament  last 
night. 

JERRY.  What?  He  always  seems  to  me  sub 
normal. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  He  isn't  at  all.  I  understand 
him.  I  know  what  is  on  his  mind  and  heart. 
She  tried  to  have  Miss  Robertson  take  his  tem 
perament,  but  he  preferred  to  have  me  do  it. 

JERRY.  Well,  another  ducking  might  finish 
him.  I  guess  he's  more  used  to  chickens  than 
ducks.  But  he  ought  to  learn  to  fall  without 
stumbling.  [Miss  Gottschalk  and  Mrs.  Winthrop 
come  downstairs ,  talking^  the  former  frowning  and 
cross,  the  latter  distraite  and  placating.  Miss 
Russell  sees  them  and  runs  out  through  the  back-hall.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [yelling  at  her  companion]. 
You  know,  my  dear,  I  couldn't  help  it.  It  was 
wholly  unfor'seen.  How  could  I  know  that  a  dog 
would  steal  the  roast?  And  it  was  so  late  in  the 
afternoon  all  the  butcher  shops  were  closed.  We 
couldn't  get  another  roast  anywhere. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [in  her  loud,  peculiarly  mod 
ulated  voice].  Canned  salmon  for  dinner  on  Sun 
day  is  enough  to  upset  one's  digestion  for  the 
entire  week. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  But  you  know,  my  dear, 
the  dog  ran  off  with  the  roast.  He  must  have 
eaten  it  all  or  buried  what  he  couldn't  eat — there 
was  not  a  scrap  left  anywhere. 

JERRY  [thrumming  his  ukelele  and  humming  low]. 
"Dese  bones  shall  rise  again." 

79 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  He  probably  devoured  it 
all.  He  was  very  sick  in  my  room  afterwards. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Oh,  my  dear,  was  he? 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     Very  sick  indeed. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  wonder  where  all  our 
guests  are? 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Jerry,  can't  you  get  up  a 
little  game  of  bridge? 

JERRY.  Now,  Miss  Hermione,  how  could  you 
suggest  such  a  thing?  You  know  I  never  play  on 
Sunday. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.    Nonsense. 

JERRY.  Besides,  canned  salmon  on  a  hot  Sun 
day  has  a  strange  effect  on  me.  I  feel  peculiarly 
languid — sort  of  watery  and  weak.  I  may  fill  a 
watery  grave. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [going  to  the  table  and  getting 
out  a  pack  of  cards].  It  does  seem  peculiar  that  in 
a  company  of  ten  persons  it  is  impossible  to  get 
up  one  game  of  bridge.  I'll  have  a  little  sol 
itaire.  [She  shuffles  her  cards,  spreads  them  on 
the  table  and  begins  to  play.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [to  Ethel  and  Jerry].  Don't 
you  know  where  your  guests  are?  Haven't  you 
provided  for  their  entertainment  in  any  way? 

JERRY.  You  can  provide  entertainment  for  a 
lunatic  asylum,  but  you  can't  make  them  play. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Come,  we  must  find  them 
and  make  things  gay.  Come.  [She  goes,  followed 
by  Ethel  and  Jerry.] 

JERRY  [as  they  go].     Make  a  funeral  gay! 

[Liz  and  Jim  enter,  hot  and  angry.    He  has  his 
arm  in  a  sling.] 

80 


THE    WEAK-END 


Liz.    I  don't  see  why  you  follow  me  around. 

JIM.  I  am  not  following  you  around.  I  don't 
want  you  to  misunderstand  my  intentions  in  the 
least.  Please  don't  think  I'm  trying  to  force  my 
unwelcome  attentions  upon  you. 

Liz.     It  is  a  relief  to  know  that. 

JIM.  My  Lord,  I  reckon  you  thought  I  was 
all  stuck-up  on  you! 

Liz.  I'll  do  you  the  justice  to  say  I  never  did 
think  that. 

JIM.  Oh,  thank  you  so  much!  I  was  afraid 
you  thought  I  was  such  a  rotten  dog-goned  senti 
mental  idiot  I  just  couldn't  keep  away  from  the 
fire.  I'll  have  you  to  know  I'm  not  the  kind  of 
man  who  makes  a  fool  of  himself  trailing  round 
after  a  girl  unless  she's  given  him  some  encour 
agement.  I  may  be  some  kinds  of  a  fool,  but  I'm 
not  that  kind.  I  don't  come  hither  unless  I've 
had  the  come-hither  invitation. 

Liz.  My  word!  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that 
I've  been  vamping  you? 

JIM.  Oh,  there  you  go,  mad  again.  Every 
body  always  gets  mad  at  me. 

Liz.  I  never  vamped  in  my  life — I  hate  it — 
I  despise  the  style  of  butterfly  that  does  it.  The 
idea  of  your  accusing  me  of  it,  James  Doolittle! 
If  I  were  a  man  I'd  knock  you  down — I  have  a 
great  .notion  to  anyway. 

JIM.  I  ain't  accusing  you  of  anything — it's 
you  that's  accusing  me.  I  only  wanted  to  try  to 
explain — to  put  myself  straight  with  you. 

Liz.    You've  done  nothing  but  try  to  explain — 

•  81 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

and  anybody  that's  as  round  as  you  are  couldn't 
possibly  be  straight. 

JIM.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  my 
car.  She's  been  behaving  something  awful  ever 
since  I  drove  her  out.  But  she  was  going  all  right 
when  it  happened.  She  was  going  like  a  bird, 
going  uphill  like  a  skylark — 

Liz.  My  word,  do  I  have  to  listen  to  all  that 
again  ? 

JIM.  — going  like  a  top,  when  that  infernal 
dog  of  yours — 

Liz.    Don't  you  say  a  word  against  *Fido — 

JIM.  You  let  him  fall  down  into  the  brakes, 
and,  while  a  Ford  is  roomy,  you  can't  carry  a  cow 
down  among  the  pedals — 

Liz.     It  was  all  your  own  fault! 

JIM.    He's  a  cow — 

Liz.    You  pinched  him! 

JIM.     He's  a  coward — 

Liz.    You  wanted  to  kill  him! 

JIM.  I  did,  but  I  didn't  try  to,  I  was  trying  to 
shift  to  low  and  his  legs  got  all  tangled  up  in  the 
pedals,  he  howled  bloody  murder  and  you  tried 
to  haul  him  out,  I  couldn't  manage  the  brakes 
and  something  got  the  matter  with  the  clutch, 
the  steering-gear — 

Liz.    I  will  not  listen  to  all  this  again! 

JIM.  Wait  a  minute.  So  we  ran  down  into  the 
ditch  and  up  the  other  side,  through  a  barbed- 
wire  fence  and  didn't  stop  till  we  hit  the  tree  and 
were  all  spilled  out.  Broke  the  lamps  and  fender, 
wrecked  the  whole  car. 

Liz.    Didn't  you  have  it  insured? 
82 


THE    WEAK-END 


JIM.  Of  course,  but  no  self-respecting  company 
will  pay  insurance  to  anybody  that  would  take  a 
man-eating  elephant  to  ride  in  his  car. 

Liz.  I  won't  have  you  talk  that  way  about 
my  dog!  The  whole  accident  was  all  your  fault 
and  not  a  bit  of  his.  You  did  it  all. 

JIM.  There  you  go,  blaming  me.  I  wouldn't 
so  much  mind  the  smash-up  if  I  didn't  get  so 
infernally  blamed  for  it.  As  if  I'd  go  to  work 
and  break  up  my  car  on  purpose.  I  might  as 
well  stay  at  home  and  use  an  ax  on  her  and  not 
run  the  risk  of  breaking  my  own  neck,  too, — or 
maybe  you  think  I  wanted  to  commit  suicide 
and  was  lonesome  for  the  company  of  a  dog  on 
my  way  to  heaven. 

Liz.  Well,  well,  well,  think  of  Jimmie  becom 
ing  sarcastic! 

JIM.  It's  enough  to  make  St.  Peter  sarcastic. 
A  chap  tries  to  do  a  girl  and  a  whole  bunch  of 
people  a  good  turn  and  gets  smashed  up  for  it 
by  a  fool  dog,  and  the  girl  turns  in  and  won't 
speak  to  him  and  tells  the  story  so  it  looks  as  if 
it  was  all  his  fault  and  everybody  goes  and  blames 
him !  And  makes  fun  of  him ! 

Liz.  Is  it  the  first  time  in  your  life  you  were 
ever  made  fun  of? 

JIM.  Oh,  that's  right,  go  right  on — keep  it  up! 
I  know  what  everybody  says,  and  it's  all  your 
doing!  But  just  let  them  try  driving  that  con 
founded  dog.  Everybody's  talking  like  greased 
lightning. 

Liz  [apprehensively]*  There  is  going  to  be  a 
storm. 

83 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JIM.  There  is.  The  sooner  the  better.  Or 
maybe  you  think  it  wasn't  premeditated  foxiness 
on  my  part  to  ditch  you — maybe  you  think  I'm 
just  a  poor  simp  that  can't  steer  a  car!  I  may  be 
a  bonehead,  but  I'm  not  as  bad  as  all  that.  I 
came  out  here  all  right  with  no  dog  and  a  different 
kind  of  girl.  My  arms  and  legs  are  all  lamed  up 
so  I  doubt  if  I  can  drive  a  car  again  for  weeks,  if 
ever. 

Liz.    You  did  your  best  to  kill  me. 

JIM.  I  just  managed  to  save  you  from  being 
killed.  And  then  to  be  treated  like  this!  I  call 
it  rather  a  shame  to  treat  a  man  this  way — I 
ain't  an  ass. 

Liz.  I  won't  listen  to  you  any  longer.  You 
talk  like  an  illiterate  idiot! 

JIM.  It's  a  dog-goned  rotten  shame.  You 
insult  me  all  the  time. 

Liz.  I  don't  care  enough  about  you  to  insult 
you. 

JIM.  I  want  you  to  understand  I'm  not  in 
love  with  you  and  never  was. 

Liz.  That's  the  only  thing  I  have  to  thank 
you  for.  But  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  going 
to  Mrs.  Winthrop  and  telling  her  how  much  you 
are  in  love  with  me.  It's  not  a  joke — if  you  are 
silly  enough  to  think  it  is. 

JIM.     I  never  did. 

Liz.     You  did. 

JIM.     I  didn't. 

Liz.    You  did — time  and  again — she  told  me  so. 

JIM.     I  did  not. 

Liz.     You  needn't  deny  it. 
84 


THE    WEAK-END 


JIM.  I  didn't  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  the 
same  thing  about  me — telling  her  how  sweet  I  am. 

Liz.    I?    Never!    Oh,  you  are  being  funny! 

JIM.  It's  you  that's  being  funny — dog-goned 
funny! 

Liz.  This  is  too  much!  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again!  [She  goes  out.  Jim  ejaculates  "Damn." 
Miss  Gottschalk  looks  up  and  sees  him.] 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Don't  you  try  your  philan 
dering  with  me  again,  James  Doolittle. 

[Jim  ejaculates  "Damn"  again  and  hurries  out 
into  the  drawing-room.  In  a  moment  Walter 
and  Ange  enter.  Miss  Gottschalk  does  not 
see  them.] 

WALTER.  It  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have 
ever  been  accused  of  doing  anything  ungentle- 
manly. 

ANGE.  That  is  exactly  the  trouble  with  you, 
Mr.  Walter  Harkness,  you  are  so  sure  of  your 
wonderful  good-breeding  that  it  never  occurs  to 
you  you  can  make  a  false  step. 

WALTER.  And  you  are  so  sure  of  people  mak 
ing  allowances  for  your  clever  tongue  that  it 
never  occurs  to  you  someone  may  object  to  your 
indiscriminate  slashing  right  and  left,  cutting 
into  people,  giving  wrong  impressions. 

ANGE.  You  have  come  to  regard  yourself  as 
impeccable.  Your  attitude  to  yourself  is  "the 
king  can  do  no  wrong."  Your  devotion  to  your 
self  is  quite  beautiful. 

WALTER.  I  have  never  been  criticised  before, 
and  on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman  I  don't  consider 
it  necessary  to  bear  your  insinuations. 

85 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

ANGE.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  insinuate — I  am 
not  so  clever.  I  am  merely  stating  facts. 

WALTER.  You  call  it  a  fact,  do  you?  That  I 
said  what  I  tell  you  I  didn't  say? 

ANGE.  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  you  didn't 
say  it. 

WALTER.  You  accuse  me  of  lying,  too,  then? 
Well,  by  Jove,  this  is  too  much.  To  accuse  me 
first  of  making  ungentlemanly  insinuations  and 
then  of  lying  to  clear  myself.  Why  shouldn't  you 
believe  me?  Have  you  ever  caught  me  in  a  lie? 

ANGE.  I  suppose  before  you  have  been  too 
clever  to  be  found  out.  Heaven  knows  what 
stories  you  have  been  telling  about  me  or  all  the 
other  girls  being  in  love  with  you.  Doubtless 
you  think  you  are  such  a  heart-smasher  that 
you've  been  going  around  boasting  of  your  con 
quests  to  all  the  old  ladies  in  town. 

WALTER.  You  might  give  me  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt. 

ANGE.  WTiy  should  I  prefer  your  word  to  Mrs. 
Winthrop's?  She  has  no  object  in  boasting  of 
your  charms — telling  me  how  handsome  you  are 
and  a  long  list  of  your  virtues  and  your  statement 
that  your  mother  had  picked  out  a  girl  with  hazel 
eyes  for  you,  and  you  couldn't  help  knowing 
whose  they  were  because  mine  are  always  on  you. 
Oh! 

WALTER.  I'm  not  responsible  for  what  my 
mother  says — if  she  ever  said  it,  which  I  don't 
believe  for  an  instant. 

ANGE.  But  what  you  yourself  said  was  worse 
—that  you  knew  and  everybody  knows  that  I  am 

86 


THE    WEAK-END 


absolutely  cr — crazy  about  you.  It  wouldn't 
have  mattered  so  much  if  you  had  said  it  only 
to  the  other  boys — men  are  all  conceited  and 
catty  and  think  girls  are  in  love  with  them  and 
talk  about  it  to  each  other — but  for  you  to  tell 
Mrs.  Winthrop!  Oh,  it  is  absolutely  unspeak 
ably  low! 

WALTER  [hotly].     I  tell  you  I  did  not  do  it! 

ANGE.  Oh,  deny  it  all  you  want,  but  you  can't 
prove  you  didn't.  Mrs.  Winthrop  says  they  are 
all  talking  about  it — about  my  love-lorn  state. 

WALTER.  You  use  picturesque  words.  She 
didn't  put  it  that  way,  surely? 

ANGE.  You  needn't  split  hairs — that  was  her 
meaning. 

WALTER  [sarcastically].  If  I  split  hairs,  you 
embroider  all  over  till  you  cover  the  pattern. 

ANGE.  Oh,  your  cavilling  analysis!  Instead  of 
arguing  with  me  it  is  obviously  up  to  you  to 
apologise  to  me  and  explain  before  each  one  of 
them  separately. 

WALTER.     I  don't  see  it. 

ANGE.  That  would  be  too  great  a  downfall 
to  your  beautiful  pride,  wouldn't  it? 

WALTER.  Why  shouldn't  you  do  the  same  for 
me,  then  ?  For  the  matter  of  that,  I  have  a  little 
crow  to  pick  with  you  on  my  own  account. 

ANGE.  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  self-righteous 
enough  to  have  a  dozen. 

WALTER.  Why  should  you  tell  Mrs.  Winthrop 
that  I  am  head  over  heels  in  love  with  you  ? 

ANGE.    I  did  nothing  of  the  sort. 
87 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

WALTER.  She  told  me  so.  Naturally,  I  be 
lieve  her. 

ANGE.     Why  shouldn't  you  believe  me? 

WALTER.  For  the  simple  reason  that  Mrs. 
Winthrop  would  have  no  reason  for  starting  such 
an  absurd  story. 

ANGE  [hotly].  Oh,  of  course,  accuse  me  of  lying, 
accuse  me  of  being  a  perfect  little  cat!  It's  like 
you,  like  your  Beau  Brummel  chivalry — 

WALTER.  I  don't  care  about  the  fellows — they 
all  know  me — but  to  have  Mrs.  Winthrop  think 
I  am  madly  in  love  with  you  places  me  in  an 
awkward  position — especially  in  regard  to  the 
other  girls. 

ANGE.  You  don't  want  your  chances  spoiled 
with  them? 

WALTER.  I  should  be  grateful  to  you  if  you 
would  deny  that  I  am  in  love  with  you. 

ANGE.  Do  your  own  denying!  Apologise  and 
explain  what  you've  told  about  me  first,  oh,  you 
first  gentleman  of  Ohio ! 

WALTER.  This  is  absolutely  impossible!  Ange, 
I  am  constrained  to  tell  you  that  if  you  were  a 
man,  I  should  be  compelled  to  knock  you  down. 
[He  turns  on  his  heel  toward  the  door  to  the  porch.] 

ANGE.  And  I  am  constrained  to  tell  you  that 
if  I  were  a  man  I  should  have  slapped  your  face 
long  ago.  Oh,  you — you  cur!  [She  bursts  into 
tears  and  runs  out  through  the  door  into  the  drawing- 
room  as  he  goes  out  to  the  porch.  Miss  Russell  and 
Lee  enter  from  the  back-hall,  she  radiant^  he  mel 
ancholy  and  absorbed,  but  with  an  air  of  clinging 
to  her.] 


THE    WEAK-END 


Miss  RUSSELL.  I  shall  never  forget  this  little 
walk  with  you  under  the  trees  with  the  breeze  in 
the  overhanging  branches  breathing  its  blessing 
over  our  heads.  When  can  we  have  another? 

LEE.  I  hope  next  year — I  mean  very  soon. 
I  want  you  to  be  with  me  a  great  deal.  You  are 
my  only  hope. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  my  prince!  I  wonder  if 
this  little  walk  could  have  been  prolific?  That 
it  may  mean  other  lovely  things  to  come?  Do 
you  know,  I  adore  everything  connected  with 
weddings — all  the  little  doings  and  superscrip 
tions.  I  particularly  dote  on  the  charming  little 
custom  of  throwing  spaghetti  over  the  happy 
pair.  [With  a  gay  smile  she  looks  up  at  Lee,  who 
gazes  at  her  with  knit  brows.]  But  now  I  must 
write  some  more  letters  for  her — perhaps  you 
could  help  me? 

LEE.  I  might  as  well.  I  feel  safe  with 
you. 

Miss  RUSSELL  [as  they  go  upstairs].  I  shall 
never  to  my  dying  day  forget  this  first  walk — 
the  rosy  sunshine — the  happy  singing  birds — 
[They  disappear  and  Ethel  and  Jerry  come  in  from 
the  back-hall.] 

JERRY.  As  soon  as  this  delightful  week-end 
party  is  over,  I've  got  to  get  away  from  here. 
If  I  stay,  Aunt  will  make  a  match  between  you 
and  me  in  spite  of  all  I  can  do. 

ETHEL.  I  will  aid  and  abet  you  both  in  regard 
to  preventing  the  match  and  your  going  away. 

JERRY.  You'd  like  to  get  rid  of  me,  wouldn't 
you? 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

ETHEL.  Very  much.  But  I'd  like  still  better 
to  get  away  myself. 

JERRY.     We  might  elope. 

ETHEL.  We  might.  [After  the  briefest  pause.] 
We  might  also  take  poison  or  shoot  ourselves. 

JERRY.  If  we  stay  here  I  don't  know  what  may 
happen.  She'll  marry  us  to  each  other  in  spite 
of  ourselves. 

ETHEL.  Jerry,  you  have  no  more  self-deter 
mination  than  an  oyster.  I  honestly  believe  you 
would  sit  right  down  and  let  Aunt  marry  you  to 
me.  I  can  tell  you,  you  make  it  mighty  hard  for 
me — why  don't  you  fight  it?  Why  don't  you  act 
the  man's  part,  why  don't  you  put  your  foot 
down  on  it,  why  don't  you  make  her  understand 
once  for  all  that  you  detest  the  very  sight  of  me, 
that  we  are  about  as  well  suited  to  each  other  as 
a  goat  and  a  hippopotamus,  that  I  am  too  old 
for  you,  that  a  match  with  me  would  spoil  all 
your  chances  for  life? 

JERRY  [acidly].    Why  don't  I? 

ETHEL.  Why  don't  you  make  it  plain  and 
unobscure  and  open  and  clear  and  downright  and 
undeniable  and  fixed  that  you  loathe  me  and  I 
abhor  you,  that  we  quarrel  incessantly,  that  a 
match  between  us  would  be  unnatural,  abnormal, 
unpsychological,  disgusting,  that  we  would  prob 
ably  end  by  murdering  each  other?  Be  a  man,  or 
at  least  pretend  you  are  a  man,  make  yourself 
dominating,  be  master  of  the  situation,  tell  her 
a  man  must  choose  his  own  mate,  tell  her  you  are 
already  in  love  with  someone  else,  tell  her  you  are 
engaged,  tell  her  you  are  going  to  do  as  you  damn 

90 


THE    WEAK-END 


please,  tell  her  it's  none  of  her  business,  make  it 
flat,  make  it  clear,  make  it  unequivocal! 

JERRY.  By  gum,  but  you  can  talk  when  you 
want  to!  I  never  knew  you  to  say  so  much  in 
my  life.  I  didn't  know  you  had  so  many  words 
in  your  head.  The  four-minute  men  aren't  in  it 
with  you.  You'll  be  in  the  Senate  next — the  lady 
from  Ohio!  Jove,  you've  said  a  mouthful! 

ETHEL.  I  haven't  said  half  as  much  as  I  think, 
Gervaise  Hough  ton! 

JERRY.  Gosh,  has  it  come  to  my  full  ancestral, 
baptismal,  abysmal  name? 

ETHEL  [stamping  her  foot].  Don't  use  that  dis 
gusting  word! 

JERRY.  Gosh  is  delightful,  a  pet  lamb  of  a 
word,  reminding  me  of  Miss  Gottschalk. 

ETHEL  [giving  him  a  long  look  of  hot,  blighting 
anger].  I  think  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again. 
Not  till  you  can  talk  and  act  like  a  man. 

JERRY.  You  know,  Ethel,  you're  almost  dev 
ilishly  handsome  when  you're  mad  —  satanic 
enough  to  make  a  worm  sit  up  and  think. 

ETHEL.  Oh!  [She  turns  in  a  fury  to  go  and 
Jerry  turns  also  to  go,  the  one  to  the  porch,  the 
other  to  the  drawing-room,  when  Mrs.  Winthrop 
and  Gwendolyn  trailing  after  her  come  down  the 
stairs.  The  older  lady  is  delicately  holding  up  her 
skirt,  though  it  is  short — Gwendolyn  does  not  touch 
hers.] 

JERRY.  You  can  tell  the  age  of  a  woman  now 
adays  by  the  way  she  manages  her  skirt. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Where  are  you  two  running 
away  to?  And  where  are  the  others? 

91 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY  [diving  into  the  drawing-room].  Well, 
two  of  them  are  in  here. 

ETHEL  [from  just  outside  on  the  porch].  Well, 
two  of  them  are  out  here. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     Bring  them  in. 

[Jerry,  Angey  and  Jim  come  in  from  the  drawing- 
roomy  Ethel,  Walter •,  and  Liz  from  the  porch.] 

JERRY.     Here  are  some  of  the  culprits. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  On  so  lovely  an  afternoon 
we  ought  to  be  doing  something  gay.  What  shall 
we  do?  [Beaming.]  We  will  have  to  plan — 
charades  ? 

JERRY.  Aunt,  I  think  you've  planned  till 
we're  almost  planted.  Also,  I've  discovered  if 
you  plant  a  plan  chaos  comes  up. 

Liz.  Jerry,  you're  getting  to  be  what  the 
English  call  a  wag. 

JERRY.  Liz,  you  associate  so  much  with  Fido 
your  ideas  have  become  dogmatic.  But  I  could 
tell  you  a  different  tail! 

Liz.     You're  a  sad  dog. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.     W7hat  shall  we  do? 

[Miss  Russell  and  Leander  enter  from  the  porch. 
He  wears  the  blue  bathrobe  again.] 

JERRY.    Let's  go  for  a  swim. 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  no,  no,  don't  mention 
swimming  before  Mr.  Lee! 

JERRY.  Well,  we've  got  to  do  something.  If 
we  don't,  something's  going  to  happen. 

ANGE.  Jerry,  since  when  did  you  become  clair 
voyant?  I  didn't  know  you  had  the  gift  of 
second  sight. 

JERRY.  Oh,  you  needn't  josh.  I  tell  you, 
92 


THE    WEAK-END 


something  awful  is  going  to  happen.  I've  felt 
it  in  the  air  all  day.  Let's  dance.  Let's  be  merry, 
for  tomorrow  we  die.  [He  goes  to  the  victrola  and 
•puts  on  a  wild  jazz  dance.  Then  he  moves  the 
chairs ,  Jim  and  Walter  helping  him  rather  sombrely. 
Jerry  seizes  Liz  and  whirls  her  off,  Walter  dances 
with  Ethel,  Jim  with  Ange,  and  Lee  with  Miss 
Russell,  who  puts  herself  in  his  way  smiling  truc 
ulently  up  at  him — she  can  scarcely  dance  the  new 
style,  steps  on  his  toes,  and  they  almost  fall  down 
several  times.  Gwendolyn  stands  behind  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  who  surveys  the  scene  askance,  the  young 
people  not  being  paired  off  to  suit  her.  The  dancers 
bump  into  each  other,  owing  to  the  awkwardness  of 
Miss  Russell,  who  bumps  into  all  of  them,  and 
even  more  often  into  Miss  Gottschalk,  who  frowns 
over  her  solitaire  but  goes  on  playing.  Mrs.  Win- 
throp  watches  the  dancing  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
finally  can  bear  the  wrong  partnerships  no  longer, 
and  going  to  the  victrola  turns  it  off  right  in  the 
middle  of  its  howling  tune.  The  effect  is  of  one 
having  his  throat  cut  right  in  the  midst  of  lusty  life. 
The  dancers  fall  apart  and  look  surprised^ 

JERRY.  But,  Aunt,  why  did  you  stop  it?  We 
want  to  dance. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  My  dear,  I  don't  in  the  least 
object  to  your  dancing,  I  love  young  people  to 
have  a  merry  time,  even  if  it  is  on  the  Sabbath 
Day.  I'm  no  Puritan,  I'm  from  Virginia,  but  I 
have  ears!  I  can't  stand  that  horrible  screeching 
rag-time.  Put  on  some  pretty  old-fashioned  tune. 

JERRY.  But  we  haven't  got  one — we  all  dance 
rag — we  like  it. 

93 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [meditatively].  In  my  day 
young  people  danced  like  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
nowadays  they  dance  like  vertical  hoptoads. 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [hunting  among  the  records]. 
There  must  be  something  pretty.  Try  this  one. 

JERRY.     That's  rag,  too. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.    It  is  better.    Sweeter.   Try  it. 

JERRY  [wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  fore 
head  and  tossing  back  his  hair].  When  you  dance 
in  winter  you  look  like  a  feather  duster,  in  the 
summer  you  look  like  a  floor  mop.  [He  puts  the 
record  on.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [to  Jerry].  Dance  with  Ethel 
this  time  and  don't  let  everything  get  mixed  up 
again.  [She  takes  Walter  to  Ange.]  Ange,  Walter 
is  longing  to  dance  with  you. 

ANGE.     I  hardly  think  so. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Yes,  he  does.  You  must 
dance  together,  as  I  say!  [Smiling,  with  her 
finger  up.  At  their  hostess1  behest  they  dance,  but 
with  compressed  lips.  She  goes  to  Jim,  leading 
Liz  with  her.]  Jimmie,  Liz  is  dying  to  dance 
with  you. 

JIM.    She'll  die  before  she  does,  I  guess. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  There,  there,  I'll  have  no 
more  lovers'  quarrels  in  my  house,  no  more  un- 
happiness!  You  two  are  to  dance  together. 
[Thus  compelled,  they  dance,  Jim  with  a  look  of 
gloomy  and  maltreated  innocence,  his  arm  still  in  a 
sling)  he  clasps  his  partner  loosely,  Liz  with  a 
Mona  Lisa  smile.  Jerry  seizes  Ethel,  who,  taken 
off  her  guard,  dances  with  impenetrable  calm  and 

94 


THE    WEAK-END 


coldness.  Mrs.  Winthrop  takes  Lee's  arm — he  has 
been  standing  with  Miss  Russell  loath  to  venture 
his  life  again  with  her  into  the  light  fantastic,  while 
she  ecstatically  smiles  up  at  him, — and  leads  him 
to  Gwendolyn.]  Here  is  a  gay  young  Lothario 
longing  frantically  to  dance  with  you.  [With  a 
look  at  each  other  as  if  meeting  a  black  and  im 
placable  fate,  they  dance.}  No  more  misunder 
standing  now!  But  sunshine  and  joy! 

\Just  then  a  roar  of  thunder  is  heard  and  as  it 
rolls  off  the  dashing  of  rain  is  heard.  The 
dancing  continues.  The  couples  bump  into 
Miss  Gottschalk,  jogging  her  elbow  until  finally 
with  a  dark  frown  she  gathers  up  her  cards  and 
goes.  Walter  and  Ange  dance  into  the  back- 
hall,  where  there  is  more  room  and  Lee  and 
Gwendolyn  follow  them.  The  thunder  roars 
often  and  the  wind  and  dashing  rain  are  heard. 
Walter  and  Ange  dance  back  again,  leaving 
Lee  and  Gwendolyn  alone  in  the  rear  hall. 
Amid  the  thunder  which  becomes  almost  con 
tinuous,  the  music  from  the  victrola,  a  par 
ticularly  reprehensible  rag  with  diabolically  reg 
ulated  jerks  and  shrieks  and  poundings,  the 
wind  and  the  sound  of  torrents  of  rain,  the 
honk  of  an  automobile  is  heard,  followed  by 
another  honk,  as  if  it  were  the  answering  call 
of  its  mate.  In  a  few  minutes  amid  a  great 
roar  of  thunder  a  strange  young  man  and  girl 
in  traveling  suits  and  dripping  with  rain, 
burst  in  through  the  front  door.  The  dancers 
fall  apart  in  consternation,  all  except  Lee  and 

95 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Gwendolyn,  who,  oblivious  to  what  is  occurring, 
are  seen  slowly  jazzing  in  melancholy  dejec 
tion  and  blue  bathrobe.] 

ALAN  [standing  at  the  door  and  shouting}.  May 
I  speak  to  Mrs.  Winthrop?  Which  is  Mrs.  Win- 
throp?  [Looking  from  Miss  Russell  to  Miss 
Gottschalk.] 

Miss  RUSSELL.  Oh,  dear  no,  you  are  laboring 
under  a  collusion.  This  is  Mrs.  Winthrop.  [Ges 
turing  elaborately  to  the  lady.] 

ALAN.  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Winthrop.  Where  is 
Miss  Robertson? 

SALLIE  [also  standing  at  the  door  and  shouting]. 
Where  is  Mr.  Lee? 

[Mrs.  Winthrop  starts  as  though  her  fate  were 
upon  her.    The  others  all  drop  back  so  that  the 
melancholy  dancers  are  in  full  view  except  to 
the  newcomers  on  the  side.     The  victrola  con 
tinues  to  grind  out  its  blatant  tune.    Jerry  goes 
to  it  and  stops  it  suddenly,  giving  the  effect 
again,  in  sound,  of  life  cut  short.] 
MRS.  WINTHROP.    Who  are  you? 
ALAN  [looking  about  at  the  astonished  company]. 
Where  is  my  wife?    I  demand  my  wife! 
MRS.  WINTHROP  \faintly].     Your  wife? 
ALAN.     She  will  be  in  a  month.     I  am  Alan 
Davis   and   Miss    Robertson    is   engaged    to    be 
married  to  me.    She  must  have  told  you. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  But  she  is  engaged  to  Mr. 
Lee. 

ALAN.     She  cannot  be. 

[The  newcomers  take  a  few  steps  forward,  the 
others  move,  so  that  Lee  and  Gwendolyn  be- 


THE  WEAK-END 


come  visible  to  Alan  and  Sallie,  they  are  still 
dancing  and  the  house-party  stands  watching 
them  with  back  to  the  audience^ 
SALLIE.     It  is  true!     My  worst  suspicions  are 
true! 

[Lee  and  Gwendolyn  realising  something  is  going 
ony  stop,  slowly  separate.,  turn  about  and  see 
their  newly  arrived  fianc  is.  There  is  a  mixture 
of  amazement,  pleasure,  and  fright  on  their 
faces  and  they  slowly,  not  to  say  reluctantly, 
diffidently,  make  their  way  into  the  front  hall 
to  the  others.  For  a  moment  they  stand  help 
lessly  gazing.] 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [in  her  suavest  voice].  I  don't 
know  who  you  are  or  why  you  have  walked  into 
my  house  so  abruptly,  but  these  two  young  people 
are  engaged  to  each  other  and  you  must  not 
make  a  scene. 

ALAN  [wildly].  A  scene!  Isn't  this  a  scene? 
Gwendolyn,  what  does  this  signify? 

SALLIE.  Leander,  come  here!  [He  somewhat 
hesitatingly  goes  a  few  steps  towards  her  and  halts .] 
Leander,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  told 
them? 

LEE.    Ah,  told  them?    Told  them — what? 
SALLIE.     What?     As  if  you   needed   to   ask! 
Leander  Lee,  you  know  perfectly  well  what  I 
mean.     Did  you  tell  them? 

LEE.  I — er — well — er — no.  I — you  see  it 
wasn't  necessary. 

SALLIE.  It  was  necessary.  Leander,  come 
right  here  to  me.  [He  goes  to  her,  she  seizes  him 

97 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

by  the  blue  bathrobe  and  looks  straight  into  his  eyes.} 
Now  tell  them. 

LEE.  But,  my  dear,  so  publicly?  You  wouldn't 
have  me — 

SALLIE.  Yes,  I  would.  Go  on.  (Lee  hesitates.] 
Go  on. 

LEE  [turning  to  the  others  while  she  holds  him  by 
the  back  of  the  blue  bathrobe].  Well — er — Sallie  and 
I — Sallie  and  I  were — 

SALLIE.    Were? 

LEE  [hastily].     Sallie  and  I  are — 

SALLIE.     Are  what? 

LEE.  Sallie  and  I  are  engaged.  [Smiles faintly.} 
I  hope  you  don't  mind. 

ALAN  [sternly].  Gwendolyn!  [She  takes  a  few 
steps  towards  him  and  halts,  looking  terrified  by  his 
stern  aspect.}  Gwendolyn,  what  Mrs.  Winthrop 
has  just  declared  needs  an  explanation. 

SALLIE.  It  does,  Leander.  What  has  been 
happening?  Will  you  please  explain? 

LEE  [weakly].  Oh,  nothing  has  happened — oh, 
nothing  at  all — not  in  the  least — there  isn't  any 
thing  to  explain. 

ALAN.    Gwendolyn,  I  demand  an  explanation. 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  there  isn't  anything  to  ex 
plain — anything  at  all — there  isn't  anything  the 
matter — anything  at  all.  We  were  just  dancing, 
you  know.  You  saw  us — just  dancing. 

ALAN.  No  judge  would  be  satisfied  with  such 
an  answer. 

GWENDOLYN  [almost  weeping].  Oh,  Alan,  you 
lawyers  are  so  exact. 


THE    WEAK-END 


ALAN.  Exact!  Here  I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  Chicago,  about  four  hundred  miles,  because 
of  my  anxiety  and  you  will  not  satisfy  me.  Ex 
act,  you  call  me — exacting  is  what  you  mean, 
I  suppose,  you  use  words  so  carelessly.  Do  you 
know  why  I  came?  Because  you,  my  affianced 
wife,  were  flirting  with  other  men  or  one  other 
man,  which  is  worse.  When  I  call  up  over  the 
Long  Distance  someone — a  drunken  or  crazy  old 
woman — answers  and  tells  me  there  are  "high 
jinks"  going  on  here — those  were  her  words, 
"high  jinks" — that  my  fiancee  is  carrying  on  out 
rageously  with  other  men — or  with  another  man, 
which  is  worse — 

SALLIE  [breaking  in}.  And  I,  Leander,  had  the 
same  experience.  When  I  called  up  yesterday 
over  the  Long  Distance  it  must  have  been  some 
impertinent,  lazy,  deaf  old  servant  who  answered 
and  would  give  me  no  satisfaction  and  wouldn't 
call  you,  but  told  me  there  were  high  jinks  going 
on  here  and  you  were  off  somewhere  spooning 
with  a  girl — that  was  exactly  what  she  said, 
"spooning  with  a  girl"!  That  is  why  I  came 
about  four  hundred  desperate,  anxious  miles  from 
Richmond,  Virginia. 

ALAN.     So  I  took  the  next  train. 

SALLIE.     So  did  I. 

ALAN.  Our  trains  arrived  at  the  same  time 
and  I  met  this  young  lady  in  the  station,  where 
we  were  both  trying  to  hire  a  taxi  to  come  out 
here,  and  we  discovered  we  were  bound  for  the 
same  place  and  on  similar  errands,  and  came  out 
here  in  this  terrific  storm — 

99 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

SALLIE.  In  two  streaming  taxis  without  chains, 
one  right  after  the  other. 

ALAN.     Like  a  funeral  procession — 

SALLIE.  It  was  a  funeral  procession — it  felt 
like  one. 

ALAN.    And  when  we  arrive,  what  do  we  find? 

SALLIE.     Yes,  what  do  we  find? 

LEE.     Oh,  nothing,  nothing. 

SALLIE.  Nothing?  Leander,  you  were  dancing 
with  her — and  how? 

LEE.  Oh,  one  dances  with  anyone  that  way 
this  year — it  doesn't  mean  any  more  than  a 
fashion-plate  in  a  magazine. 

SALLIE.  But  you  were  dancing  with  her  and 
not  one  of  the  others. 

LEE.    I  couldn't  help  it — it  wasn't  my  fault. 

SALLIE.  And  in  that — that — negligee!  [Look 
ing  pointedly  at  the  bathrobe.] 

LEE.     It  really  wasn't  my  fault. 

GWENDOLYN  [beginning  to  weep}.  Oh,  it  wasn't 
mine — you  know  it  wasn't! 

LEE  [almost  weeping,  too].  Well,  you  made  me 
think — or  at  least,  Mrs.  Winthrop  made  me 
think — that  you — that  you — 

GWENDOLYN.  That  I?  Why,  it  was  you! 
She  told  me  you  were  crazy  about  me — that — 

LEE.  She  told  me  that  you  were  madly  in  love 
with  me — 

GWENDOLYN.     I — oh — 

LEE  [with  a  break  in  his  voice].  She  said  I  had 
to  marry  you  because  you  saved  my  life. 

GWENDOLYN  [sobbing  violently].  She  told  me 
you  would  commit  suicide  if  I  didn't  marry  you. 

100 


THE    WEAK-END 


ALAN  [scornfully  and  ungrammatically].  Com 
mit  suicide!  Him! 

SALLIE  [relinquishing  her  hold  on  the  blue  bath 
robe].  Leander,  you  may  take  her  if  you  want. 

LEE.     I  don't  want  her. 

ALAN  [with  magnificent  scorn],  Gwendolyn,  you 
are  free! 

GWENDOLYN.    I  don't  want  to  be  free. 

LEE  [in  high-pitched  masculine  hysterics].  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  see  what  you  have  done! 

GWENDOLYN  [in  high-pitched  feminine  hysterics]. 
Oh,  see  what  you  have  done! 

MRS.  WINTHROP  [bursting  into  tears].  Is  this 
the  end  of  my  self-sacrifice?  Is  this  the  way  all 
my  kindness  is  rewarded?  All  my  efforts  to  make 
others  happy? 

LEE.    We  were  happy,  if  you  had  let  us  alone. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  You  to  say  that!  You  to 
be  the  first  to  reproach  me! 

GWENDOLYN.  Oh,  you  have  made  everybody 
wretchedly  unhappy. 

MRS.  WINTHROP.    The  ingratitude  of  youth! 

SALLIE.    You  are  a  meddlesome  old  cat! 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  Oh,  you  impertinent  little 
hussy! 

ALAN  [very  cocky,  furious,  but  judicious].  She 
has  put  it  most  unfortunately,  most  rawly.  I 
regret  the  circumstances  most  deeply,  but  never 
theless  what  she  says  is  true,  madam.  By  your 
animadversions  and  misrepresentations  you  have 
very  apparently  put  us  all  in  a  completely  false 
position — a  position  from  which  heaven  knows 
how  we  can  be  extricated. 

1 01 


THIRD.  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  WINTHROP.  I  am  sorry  it  is  necessary 
to  suggest  it,  but  you  can  all  extricate  yourselves 
from  my  house!  You  are  an  impertinent,  rude, 
impudent,  shameless,  brazen-faced  young  pack! 
I  never  want  to  hear  or  see  any  of  you  ever  again 
or  any  young  people.  In  my  day  young  ladies 
and  gentlemen  were  brought  up  differently — they 
never  talked  this  way  to  their  elders —  You  have 
treated  me  outrageously!  It  is  a  disgrace,  a 
shame,  an  infamy!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  [She  starts  to 
go ,  furious  and  weeping.] 

ALAN  [as  she  goes].    It  is  all  your  own  fault. 

SALLIE.  You  meddled  with  other  people's 
business. 

ALAN.  You  attempted  to  wreck  the  happiness 
of  a  pure  young  girl. 

SALLIE.  You  tried  to  entangle  a  chivalrous 
young  man. 

ALAN.    It  is  almost  a  case  of  blackmail. 

SALLIE.     It  is  atrocious. 

[Mrs.  Winthrop  goes  out  sobbing  and  hysterical 
up  the  stairs.] 

JERRY.  Look  here,  you  know  I  don't  want  to 
seem  rude  in  my  own  house  and  all  that — for  it 
is  just  the  same  as  my  own  house  [becoming  dig 
nified  and  masterful],  but  I  feel  obliged  to  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  you.  I  think  you've  all  acted 
like  a  set  of  damn  fools  and  mean  ones  at  that. 
You,  Mr.  Alan  Davis,  are  a  cur.  If  I  had  a  girl 
engaged  to  me  and  couldn't  trust  her  I  wouldn't 
blame  anyone  else.  And  as  for  my  old  friend, 
Lee,  you've  acted  like  a  cad.  I  don't  want  to 
criticise  a  lady,  but  you,  Miss  Robertson,  have 

102 


THE    WEAK-END 


been  about  as  spineless  as  a  jelly-fish,  and  I 
should  say  Miss  Sallie  Carter  is  a  tartar.  I  want 
to  say  I  won't  stand  having  Aunt  insulted.  She 
may  have  been  foolish  and  made  mistakes,  but 
she  meant  no  harm — she  was  doing  what  she 
thought  was  for  your  happiness,  Gwen  and  Lee. 
It's  up  to  you  all  to  write  and  apologise  to  her. 
I  hope  I've  made  my  meaning  clear.  I  am  here 
to  wish  you  all  four  goodbye  and  hope  that  you 
will  have  all  the  torments  that  are  by  rights  com 
ing  to  you.  If  your  taxis  aren't  rain-proof,  I'll 
be  glad  to  send  you  all  back  together  in  our 
limousine — at  once.  [Ethel  watches  him  intently 
as  he  delivers  himself  of  this  speech  and  then  goes 
upstairs  after  Mrs.  Winthrop.] 

ALAN  [sternly].     Gwendolyn,  come! 

GWENDOLYN.     My  things? 

ALAN.  Get  them.  Hurry.  [She  runs  out  of 
the  room.] 

SALLIE.  Leander,  you  come  along  with  me. 
You  can't  wear  that  private  theatricals  property 
[looking  at  the  bathrobe] — get  your  coat  and  hat. 
[He  goes.] 

JERRY.    It  is  hardly  fit  for  a  rainy  day. 

ANGE.  I  don't  know  how  the  rest  of  you  feel 
about  it,  but  I  feel  sort  of  de  trop. 

WALTER.  We'd  better  all  go  home.  How  about 
it,  Lizzie? 

Liz.  I'm  ready.  I  didn't  bring  anything  but 
a  toothbrush  and  Fido.  You  won't  mind  him.  I 
guess  we'd  better  tell  you,  though,  before  we  go 
that  out  there  on  the  porch  just  now  I  promised 
Walter  to  marry  him. 

103 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY.    Well,  for  the  love  o'  Mike! 
LEE   [re-appearing)  coat  on,  hat  in  hand].     I 
didn't  take  time  to  pack — could  you — would  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  send  me  my  suit-case?     [To 
Jerry]. 

JERRY.     I'd  send  you  anything,  old  man,  to 
get  rid  of  you. 

[Sallie  takes  Lee  by  the  arm,  and  without  looking 
back  he  says  goodbye  and  they  hurry  out.    Miss 
Russell  bursts  into  violent  tears  and  shrieking 
and  turns  and  runs  out  through  the  back-hall^ 
Liz.    Come,  Walter,  we  must  find  Fido — 
JERRY.    He's  locked  in  the  cow-house. 
Liz.     — and  go. 

ANGE.    Jimmie,  I  think  we  ought  to  tell  them, 
too. 

JIM  [nearly  bursting  with  heat,  confusion,  and 
pride}.    Well,  you  may  as  well  know  before  we  go 
that  in  the  drawing-room  there  just  now  Ange 
promised  to  marry  me. 
JERRY.    Well,  for  the  love  o'  Mike! 
[Gwendolyn   appears   with   her  suit-case,   which 
Alan  gallantly  takes  from  her.     She  fugitively 
whispers   goodbye,    and   Alan    in    his  grand 
manner  lifts  his  hat  as  they  go  out.] 
ANGE.      We'll  come  for  my  things  tomorrow. 
I  can't  bear  to  face  her  now. 
Liz.     Come  on. 
[Walter  takes  Liz's  arm  and  they  go.    Ange  takes 

Jimmie 's  arm  and  they  go.] 
JERRY.    Well,  for  the  love  o'  Mike!    [He  sticks 
his    hands    into   his  pockets    and   stands   staring, 
finally  picks  up  his  ukelele  and  hums  "Dese  bones 

104 


THE    WEAK-END 


shall  rise  again."  Ethel  comes  in  carrying  a  tall 
glass  of  limeade  and  drops  on  a  divan  weariedly 
and  nervously^ 

JERRY.  Well,  the  storm  seems  to  be  over. 
[Thunder  is  heard  in  the  distance^ 

ETHEL.  Jimminy!  My  hand  shakes  so  I  am 
almost  spilling  it. 

JERRY.     Well? 

ETHEL.  Oh,  it's  all  right.  She's  gone  to  inter 
view  the  cook  about  putting  up  fruit  tomorrow. 
She's  crying  still — a  little.  It  is  some  disappoint 
ment  and  humiliation,  but  mostly  temper.  I'm 
sorry  to  say  it  of  Aunt,  but  it  is  mostly  temper. 

JERRY.     But  it's  kind  of  hard  on  Aunt. 

ETHEL.     It's  been  hard  on  all  of  us. 

JERRY.    Harder  on  you  than  you  pretended. 

ETHEL.     Have  they  all  gone? 

JERRY.    The  whole  bunch.    And  I'm  glad  of  it. 

ETHEL  [smiting].    Are  you,  Jerry?    So  am  I. 

JERRY.    I'm  glad  we  are  alone  again. 

ETHEL.  Are  you,  Jerry?  So  am  I.  But  I 
thought  you  liked  a  lot  of  people  around? 

JERRY.  I  don't.  I  like  just  one  person  around 
— worse  fool  me!  I  suppose  you  wish  I'd  go. 

ETHEL.  Oh,  no,  I  am  rather  exhausted.  Your 
— your  prattle  amuses  me.  You  see  I  am  used  to 
vou. 

f 

JERRY.    I  didn't  know  you  ever  got  exhausted. 

ETHEL.  There  are  a  good  many  things  you 
don't  know  about  me.  A  good  many  things  you 
haven't  seen.  If  one  lives  too  close  to  a  person 
one  doesn't  see,  things  unless  one  naturally  has 
abnormal  eyes. 

105 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

JERRY.  Too  close?  Well,  I'd  take  the  risk. 
I  never  see  anything  anyhow.  I'm  nothing  but 
a  blind  puppy.  Sometimes  I  feel  things  coming — 
like  the  storm  today,  the  thunder  storm  and  the 
psychic  upheaval — I  knew  something  was  in  the 
air — too  heavy — something  was  going  to  bust. 

ETHEL  [suddenly].    Jerry,  you  were  magnificent! 

JERRY.    Gee,  I?    What,  when,  how? 

ETHEL.  When  you  defended  Aunt — when  you 
came  to  her  support  and  spoke  right  out  from  the 
shoulder.  You  were  manly  and  fine  and  straight 
and  to  the  point  and  strong.  You  were  superb! 

JERRY.  My  God,  Ethel!  You  must  be  talk 
ing  to  somebody  else,  not  me! 

ETHEL.  I  always  knew  you  had  it  in  you  and 
I  always  wanted  you  to  assert  yourself,  and  at 
last  you  have.  You  were  perfectly  splendid! 

JERRY.  Ethel,  you  darling!  Are  you  quite 
sure  you  are  talking  about  me? 

ETHEL.  Oh,  quite.  I  never  admired  anyone 
so  much  in  my  life. 

JERRY.  Oh,  you  sweetheart!  Ethel,  I  adore 
you! 

ETHEL.  No,  you  don't,  Jerry.  You  have  al 
ways  detested  me. 

JERRY.  I  have  always  been  in  love  with  you 
ever  since  I  can  remember,  but  I  never  dared 
mention  it  because  you  have  always  been  a  walk 
ing  iceberg  to  me. 

ETHEL.     Oh,  Jerry! 

JERRY.  Do  you  think  you  won't  freeze  up 
again  to  me  and  stop  the  pipes  of  my  emotions? 

ETHEL  [with  a  deep  sigh].     Oh,  Jerry! 
1 06 


THE    WEAK-END 


JERRY.  Oh,  you  love!  [He  steps  towards  her 
and  is  about  to  embrace  her  when  Miss  Gottschalk 
enters.] 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK  [looking  about].  Where  are 
they  all? 

JERRY  [shouting].  Not  here.  Only  us — Ethel 
and  me. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     Has  anything  happened? 

JERRY.     Very  much. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  Did  those  young  fools 
come,  perchance?  Those  two  who  were  tele 
phoned  to  in  the  presence  of  the  stupid  stone-deaf 
old  woman.  Oh,  perhaps  I  made  them  a  little 
uneasy  later  when  I  talked  to  them.  Have  they 
all  gone? 

JERRY.  Yes,  they've  all  gone — all — gone — 
home! 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     All? 

JERRY.     ALL! 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     Home? 

JERRY.     Home,  James! 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.  That's  good.  Perhaps  we 
can  get  off  to  Atlantic  City  now. 

JERRY.  You'd  better  go  find  Helen  and  pro 
pose  it. 

Miss  GOTTSCHALK.     I  will.     [She  goes.] 

JERRY  [after  a  brief  intent  moment  of  watching 
her  safe  out  of  sight].  Ethel,  do  you  think  you 
could  arrange  to  marry  me  tomorrow?  I  feel 
awfully  restless  and  nervous  and  run  down — I'd 
like  so  awfully  to  go  off  on  a  honeymoon.  [He 
kisses  her  as  the  curtain  falls.] 

[CURTAIN  TO  ACT  III  AND  TO  THE  PLAY.] 
107 


MOLLIE  BARTON, 
CLEMENTINE  GARTH, 


THE  STORM. 
A  FARCE  WITH  A  VISION. 

CHARACTERS  AS  THEY  APPEAR: 

Slightly  differentiated^  the 
one  by  a  sharper  tongue, 
the  other  by  a  more  pa 
tient  heart.  Perfectly  ca 
pable  of  doing  a  day's 
washing,  but  devoting 
their  energies  to  society 
and  charity  and  living 
upon  the  bounty  of  their 
fashionable  friends. 
MAID. 

Miss  WATSON,  a  thin,  sallow  person  in  mourning, 
boasting  bereavements,  a  weak  stomach,  and  per 
verse  appetite. 

MRS.  ADDISON,  a  sweet,  fat  old  lady  devoted  to  duty 
which  the  dead-and-gone  male  members  of  her 
family  patently  neglected. 
MRS.  STEIMER,  a  plump  blonde  with  an  absence  of 

sensitiveness. 
MRS.  SMYTHE,  a  thin,  elderly,  willowy  widow,  with 

a  bubbling  optimism. 

Miss  Ho L WORTHY,  healthy,  hard,  and  with  a  fixed 
belief  that  you  can  pluck  figs  from  thistles  if  you 
try  hard  enough. 

MRS.  DRAHO,  small,  and  busy  on  her  ladder,  con 
scious  that  her  husband's  factory  is  more  pro- 
108 


THE    STORM 


due  five  than  a  family  free.    French  poets  have  not 

yet  dawned  on  her  horizon,  but  her  limousine 

always  carries  a  bouquet. 
MRS.   LAWRENCE,   with  a  willingness  to  attempt 

anything  that  may   counteract  her  tendency  to 

obesity. 
Miss  JOHNSON,  a  very  modest  young  teacher,  who 

has  been  hired  to  tell  the  ladies  what  they  want  to 

know  without  trouble. 
THE  SOLDIER. 

[The  Garden  Club  is  about  to  meet  at  the  home 
of  one  of  its  members,  Mrs.  Draho.  The  club  is 
composed  for  the  most  part  of  ladies  of  the  aris 
tocracy  of  their  city  who  live  on  polished  floors 
and  butlers  inside  their  castles,  and  marble  walks 
and  gardeners  outside.  Mrs.  Draho,  the  excep 
tion,  has  been  admitted  because  of  her  notably 
wonderfully  beautiful  garden.  Her  drawing- 
room,  where  the  meeting  takes  place,  is  not  a 
gratification  of  huge  expense  of  the  nouveau  riche, 
but  is  rather  a  curiously  crowded  display  of  taste 
in  selection — a  wholesale  collection  of  selection,  as 
it  were,  of  Rococo  tables,  Louis  ^uinze  chairs, 
gilded  mirrors,  Bohemian  glass,  Dresden  china 
shepherdesses,  etc.  Mollie  Barton  and  Clemen 
tine  Garth  are  ushered  in  by  an  immaculate  maid.] 

CLEMENTINE.  But  Mrs.  Draho  is  expecting  us, 
isn't  she? 

MAID.  Oh,  yes,  miss.  Mrs.  Draho  was  de 
tained  at  the  Red  Cross  and  is  just  eating  a  bite 
of  lunch.  She  wasn't  expecting  the  ladies  quite 
so  early.  She  will  be  with  you  in  a  few  moments. 

109 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

If  you'll  just  make  yourselves  at  home,  please. 
[She  goes.] 

MOLLIE.  I  came  early  purposely  to  get  a  look 
at  her  house  before  the  meeting.  I  was  afraid 
she'd  have  us  out  in  the  garden  and  never  let  us 
get  a  peep  at  the  house. 

CLEMENTINE.  Yes,  she  would.  Trust  her  to 
have  us  in  the  house.  She  knows  everybody 
knows  about  her  precious  garden — she's  digging 
her  way  into  society  through  her  garden — now 
she's  got  us  here,  she  wouldn't  let  us  escape 
without  showing  off  the  house.  [Looking  around 
at  things.}  Isn't  it  awful? 

MOLLIE.  Most  curious  place  I  ever  saw. 
Curious  is  the  word.  It  looks  like  a  salesroom  of 
curios.  They  say  she  had  Albertus  Darling 
furnish  it  for  her,  and  it  looks  exactly  like  his 
store — jewelry  and  antiques. 

CLEMENTINE.  Albertus  ought  by  rights  to  be 
a  lady's  maid  instead  of  a  jeweler. 

MOLLIE.  If  he  were,  what  in  the  world  would 
people  do  for  an  extra  man  to  fill  in  at  dinner 
parties  ? 

CLEMENTINE.     Fill  in  or  fill  up? 

MOLLIE.  Oh,  I  said  fill  in.  Albertus  has  the 
appetite  of  a  cooing  dove.  That's  another  reason 
for  inviting  him,  in  addition  to  his  wearing 
trousers — especially  in  war  times — he's  so  cheap. 

CLEMENTINE.  Well,  his  things  are  not  cheap. 
[Looking  about.]  He  must  have  made  a  fortune 
on  this  deal. 

MOLLIE.  Very  spiffy,  eh?  How  many  castles 
he  must  have  rifled?  I  see  English  castles,  one 

no 


THE    STORM 


German  castle,  one  Italian  palace,  one  French 
chateau — I  say,  isn't  it  funny  it's  always  English 
and  German  castles,  the  others  are  chateaux, 
palaces,  villas. 

CLEMENTINE.  Castles  nothing.  I  see  Paris 
pawn  shops. 

MOLLIE.  Well,  she  ought  to  smash  up  this 
Dresden  china  junk,  it's  not  patriotic  to  keep  it. 
Turn  it  into  shells  and  smash  a  Hun's  mug  with  it. 

CLEMENTINE.  Break  it  up  and  use  it  for  shell 
roads. 

MOLLIE.  Oh,  come  in,  Clem,  you're  getting 
maudlin. 

CLEMENTINE.  I'm  not  as  outrageous  as  you 
are,  anyway,  coming  to  a  woman's  house  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  making  fun  of  it.  You're  abso 
lutely  low  and  shameless. 

MOLLIE.  What  else  would  I  come  for  except 
the  eats?  I  know  they'll  be  de  luxe,  and  that's 
what  brought  you  here,  you  pure  virgin. 

CLEMENTINE.  It  will  be  a  sell  if  they're  not 
good  after  we've  come  such  an  outlandish  distance. 
If  they're  not  I'll  never  honor  her  with  my 
presence  again. 

MOLLIE.  Tut,  tut.  People  who  live  on  other 
people's  ice-cream  mustn't  throw  mud. 

CLEMENTINE.  Oh,  don't  be  sanctimonious, 
Moll.  You're  as  poor  as  I  am. 

MOLLIE.  Poorer,  my  dear,  if  that's  possible. 
I  make  no  pretentions,  I'm  a  little  sister  of  the 
rich,  my  brother  married  money.  We  haven't 
had  any  money  in  our  family  since  my  great 
grandfather  married  it.  My  grandfather  and 

in 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

father  lost  it  all.  In  our  family  it  is  three  gen 
erations  from  marrying  money  to  marrying 
money. 

CLEMENTINE.  We  still  drag  along  on  the  little 
my  father  didn't  spend.  I  wish  Isaac  would 
marry  money,  but  he's  getting  old — 

MOLLIE.     He's  only  forty. 

CLEMENTINE.  But  he's  blind  of  an  eye  and  has 
no  sense  of  smell,  and  all  the  debutantes  are 
marrying  chauffeurs  that  have  got  to  be  cor 
porals.  They  seem  to  prefer  them  to  perfectly 
good  blind  or  deaf  gentlemen.  And  Isaac  has 
got  himself  perfectly  enthralled  in  Bahaism. 
Whom  are  you  going  to  get  to  take  you  home? 
We  can't  walk  back — it's  too  terribly  far  from 
the  car  line. 

MOLLIE.  Why,  you  hypocritical  cherub,  you 
know  we  never  walk.  We  only  go  with  these 
dear  old  hens  in  order  to  ride  in  their  limousines. 
I  shall  freeze  on  to  Mrs.  Smythe,  the  simple  one, 
to  take  me  along  and  drop  me  at  my  brother's. 
You'd  better  pick  a  limousine,  too,  and  not  an 
open  car,  because  there  will  probably  be  a  terrible 
thunder  shower. 

CLEMENTINE.  You're  popular  with  the  dears 
because  they  like  to  hear  you  talk,  but  I  never 
feel  safe. 

MOLLIE.  Oh,  hop-toads!  There's  no  choice 
between  us  except  I  take  more  pains  to  polish  up 
my  adjectives.  On  the  other  hand,  you're  more 
interested  in  their  ailments. 

CLEMENTINE.  I  guess  I'll  go  home  with  Miss 
Watson.  It's  Thursday,  the  maid's  day  out,  and 

112 


THE    STORM 


we  won't  have  anything  but  canned  salmon  at 
home. 

MOLLIE.  Miss  Watson  lives  perpetually  on 
fatted  calf,  that's  why  the  poor  dear  is  eternally 
dyspeptic.  But  you'll  have  a  re-hash  of  X-rays 
and  stomach  pumps. 

CLEMENTINE.  Moll,  how  do  you  happen  to  be 
in  the  Garden  Club,  anyhow? 

MOLLIE.  My  brother  married  a  garden,  so 
I'm  interested  in  hybrids. 

CLEMENTINE.     Or  mongrels. 

MOLLIE.  How  about  you,  my  dear  ingenuous 
debutante? 

CLEMENTINE.  Other  people  sat  in  my  grand 
father's  garden,  so  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  sit 
in  other  people's  gardens.  Besides,  I  have  a 
geranium  bed  in  the  back  yard. 

MOLLIE.  All  gardens  are  alike  to  me.  I  walk 
in  other  people's  gardens  and  enjoy  the  holly 
hocks  just  as  much  as  if  I  paid  taxes  on  them. 
All  my  gardening  is  vicarious  gardening.  For 
that  matter,  there's  a  good  deal  of  vicarious 
gardening. 

CLEMENTINE.  Here's  Miss  Lilly.  [Miss  Wat 
son  enters^  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Lilly?  I  trust 
you're  feeling  better  today? 

Miss  WATSON.  I  am,  I  think  I  am.  I've  gone 
to  a  new  doctor. 

CLEMENTINE.  But,  Miss  Lilly,  you  are  better, 
and  you  must  keep  on  thinking  so.  I'm  not  a 
Christian  Scientist  or  anything  like  that — 

MOLLIE.  Like  that?  you  strange  idiot.  You 
either  are  a  Christian  Scientist  or  you're  not — 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

it's  like  having  babies,  you  either  have  one  or 
haven't,  there's  no  half-way  course. 

CLEMENTINE.  What  I  mean  is,  I  think  you 
can  think  a  great  deal — even  when  you  go  to  a 
doctor. 

MOLLIE.  No,  going  to  a  doctor  isn't  a  think 
ing  process — it's  purely  emotional. 

Miss  WATSON.  Well,  I  have  this  new  doctor, 
a  perfectly  marvelous  man,  a  stomach  specialist. 
He  won't  touch  anything  but  stomachs.  He  says 
no  one  has  ever  understood  my  case  before,  that 
all  the  other  doctors'  treatment  has  been  alto 
gether  wrong,  that  it  isn't  physiological  at  all, 
but  anatomical  entirely,  that  my  stomach  is 
reversed — think  of  it — reversed.  And  he  has  put 
me  on  a  stringent  diet  of  beer  and  fried  po 
tatoes. 

MOLLIE.  That  seems  reasonable,  if  your 
stomach  is  reversed  you  should  eat  the  re 
verse  of  what  is  generally  considered  digestible. 

Miss  WATSON.    I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 

MOLLIE.  Perhaps  it  is  the  weight  of  the  beer 
and  potatoes  that  will  turn  your  stomach  over  to 
its  proper  position. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Addisony  Mrs.  Steimer,  and  Mrs. 
Smythe.     There  are  greetings.] 

MRS.  ADDISON.  How  do  you  do,  ladies?  How 
do  you  do,  Lilly.  Welcome  to  our  midst. 

MRS.  STEIMER  [to  Miss  Watson].  Oh,  is  this 
your  first  meeting? 

Miss  WATSON.  Yes.  I  have  always  meant  to 
come  into  the  Garden  Club,  but  my  health 

114 


THE    STORM 


seemed  never  to  permit  it,  and  I  am  always  in 
mourning. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  You  have  had  a  good  many 
bereavements,  Lilly,  haven't  you? 

Miss  WATSON.  I  am  the  constant  subject  of 
bereavements.  Nobody  has  as  many  bereave 
ments  as  I  do.  But  when  I  heard  you  were  going 
to  change  from  a  flower  garden  to  a  war  garden 
club  I  determined  that,  come  what  might,  I 
would  join.  You  see,  in  addition  to  wanting  to 
be  a  patriot  and  do  my  bit,  I  am  also  personally 
interested  in  potatoes.  I  have  to  eat  them  now 
exclusively. 

MOLLIE.    Fried. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.     Oh,  my  dear,  not  fried? 

Miss  WATSON.  Yes,  the  doctor  is  very  specific 
about  their  being  fried. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  But  fried  potatoes!  They  are 
so  plebeian — what  street-car  conductors  would  eat. 

MOLLIE.  Not  they,  poor  souls — with  their  cold 
lunches. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  But  think  how  pleased  Mr. 
Hoover  would  be  with  anybody's  using  a  diet  of 
nothing  but  potatoes.  Why  don't  you  send  him 
a  telegram,  dear,  telling  him  how  patriotic  you 
are? 

MOLLIE.  You  might  get  a  cross  of — vegetable 
ivory. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Draho  in  a  wonderful  gown.] 

MRS.  DRAHO.  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  ladies? 
Oh,  I  am  so  ashamed  of  myself  for  not  being 
ready.  I  was  kept  at  the  Red  Cross,  and  I  just 

"5 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

had  to  change  my  dress — I  was  so  dirty,  pot 
black!  I  thought  you  didn't  meet  till  four  and — 
excuse  me,  but  the  Garden  Club  has  never  been 
on  time  before  and  it  isn't  four  yet. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  I  suppose  we  all  came  early 
for  fear  we  wouldn't  see  enough  of  your  beauti 
ful  [looking  about  the  room  curiously]  garden. 

MRS.  DRAHO.    Are  you  all  here? 

MOLLIE.    Well,  you  know,  we're  never  all  there. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  I  think  we  might  wait  a  few 
moments  for  some  of  the  others  to  come. 

CLEMENTINE.  Especially  as  the  lady  who  is 
to  talk  to  us  this  afternoon  isn't  here  yet. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  Oh,  is  there  to  be  a  lady  to 
talk  to  us?  How  interesting!  Who  is  she? 

CLEMENTINE.     Miss  Johnson,  of  the  Institute. 

Miss  WATSON.  It  sounds  as  if  she  were  an 
insane  person,  but  of  course  she  couldn't  be, 
could  she,  to  address  us?  Is  she  an  inmate? 

CLEMENTINE.  The  Institute,  dear  lady,  is  our 
city  educational  institution — 

MOLLIE.    Easily  confused  with  an  asylum. 

CLEMENTINE.     A  college,  you  know. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I  had  for 
gotten.  It  is  the  place  here  where  the  poor  young 
men  of  the  city  go  who  can't  afford  to  go  away 
to  Harvard.  Is  she  a  student  there? 

CLEMENTINE.  Dear,  no.  She  is  a  professor. 
She  teaches  domestic  science. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  indeed.  Is  domestic 
science  something  like  Christian  Science? 

MOLLIE.  They  both  belong  to  the  same  gen 
eral  family. 

116 


THE    STORM 


Miss  WATSON.  I  don't  understand  you, 
Mollie,  though  I  know  what  you  say  must  be 
witty — you  are  always  so  witty.  I  don't  see  the 
connection  between  Christian  Science  and  a 
garden  club — but  there  are  so  many  things  quite 
beyond  me. 

CLEMENTINE.  She  is  going  to  tell  us  about 
vegetables. 

Miss  WATSON.  I  know — tomatoes  are  five 
cents  apiece,  my  cook  tells  me.  I  have  to  buy 
them  for  the  servants.  They  have  to  have  so 
much.  Of  course  I  don't  let  them  have  bacon, 
but  that  makes  them  eat  so  many  chickens. 

MOLLIE.  They  are  never  on  a  diet  of  fried 
potatoes. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  It  is  time  that  woman  was 
here.  It  is  just  like  a  woman  of  her  class  to 
keep  us  all  waiting. 

MOLLIE.  If  she  doesn't  hurry  up  she'll  be 
sprinkled.  It's  been  sultry  all  day  and  the  clouds 
are  gathering  fast — faster  than  we  are. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Was  some  one  going  to  bring 
her  here? 

MRS.  DRAHO.  Oh,  no,  she  can  come  on  the 
street  car  and  then  walk  the  rest  of  the  way. 
She  was  given  directions  how  to  find  the  place. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  Maybe  some  of  us  ought  to 
take  her  home. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Oh,  someone  can  drive  her 
to  the  nearest  car  line. 

[Mrs.  Lawrence  and  Miss  Holworthy  arrive,  and 
there  are  greetings^ 

117 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Don't  you  think  we  can  begin 
now? 

MRS.  ADDISON.  I  don't  like  to  begin  till  all 
the  ladies  who  are  coming  are  here.  Do  you 
think  any  more  will  come,  Mrs.  Draho? 

MRS.  DRAHO.  Well,  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  say. 
They  didn't  any  of  them  let  me  know. 

Miss  WATSON.  Really,  Clem,  I'm  all  in  a 
flutter.  I  wonder  if  it  will  hurt  my  stomach? 
Because  this  is  my  first  woman's  club  meeting. 
I  have  always  been  so  afraid  of  ladies'  clubs, 
they  know  so  much.  I  am  acquainted  with  all 
of  you,  and  yet  in  a  club  you  positively  intim 
idate  me.  If  I  am  called  upon  for  anything  I 
feel  sure  I  shan't  find  my  tongue. 

MOLLIE.  You  won't  be  called  upon  for  your 
tongue — only  a  tomato  plant. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  You  see  the  purpose  of  the 
garden  club  was  really  for  the  exchange  of  plants. 
If  I  had  a  rose  of  a  particularly  fine  variety — 

MRS.  SMYTHE.    But  you  haven't,  have  you? 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  I  would  exchange  cuttings 
of  it  for  something  you  would  have. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  But  you  haven't  any  roses, 
my  dear. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  You  have  something  I  do  want 
so  awfully,  Mrs.  Lawrence — your  columbine. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Oh,  yes,  your  columbines  are 
famous. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  I'll  give  you  some  of  my  can 
terbury  bells  for  your  columbine. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Oh,  we  all  want  some  of  your 
columbine. 

118 


THE    STORM 


MRS.  LAWRENCE  [who,  be  it  remembered,  is 
huge,  speaking  grandiloquently  and  pugnaciously]. 
They  are  not  for  exchange.  Anyone  that  gets  my 
columbine  will  have  to  do  it  over  my  dead  body. 
[There  is  a  momenfs  embarrassed  silence  \ 

MRS.  ADDISON.     Shall  we  begin,  ladies? 

CLEMENTINE.  Maybe  your  Miss  Johnson  is 
afraid  of  the  rain  and  isn't  coming. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Oh,  no,  people  of  that  sort 
go  out  in  all  weathers. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  I  think  it  is  outrageous  for 
us  to  be  so  slipshod  in  the  way  we  conduct  busi 
ness.  We  haven't  any  parliamentary  rules,  at 
all.  We  don't  pay  any  attention  to  parliamentary 
order.  The  reason  the  Germans  and  the  suffra 
gists  have  got  ahead  so  is  that  they  are  so  meth 
odical  and  efficient. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  That's  perfectly  plain,  and  we 
ought  to  fight  the  Germans  and  the  suffragists 
with  their  own  weapons. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  Exactly.  We  ought  to 
fight  them  with  method  and  efficiency. 

MRS.  ADDISON  [nodding].  I've  heard  my  dear 
son  use  those  terms. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  We've  all  heard  the  men  use 
them. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  Oh,  yes,  use  the  terms. 
But  in  the  Garden  Club  we  don't  use  method 
and  efficiency.  We  sit  around  like  a  pack  of  hens. 

MRS.  SMYTHE  [ecstatically].  Oh,  my  dear,  you 
ought  to  be  a  four-minute  man.  You  would  be 
an  inspiration  to  anybody.  You  are  a  burning 
torch. 

119 


Miss  HOLWORTHY  [somewhat  soothed].  Well,  I 
think  it  is  outrageous  for  us  to  be  so  slipshod. 
The  reason  the  working  classes  have  formed 
unions  and  all  that  and  socialism  has  got  so 
dangerous  and  everything,  is  that  the  women  of 
the — the  aristocracy — are  so — so  slipshod. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Wages  have  gone  up  ter 
ribly.  Why  you  have  to  pay  an  upstairs  maid 
eight  dollars  a  week  now. 

MOLLIE.    Upstairs  maids  have  gone  up. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  You  can't  get  a  good  cook 
any  more. 

CLEMENTINE.  They  have  all  gone  into  the 
army  to  cook  mess  and  the  women  cooks  have 
all  gone  into  the  hotels.  They  say  they  will 
have  to  employ  women  chefs  in  the  hotels  ex 
clusively. 

MOLLIE.  They  are  using  girls  for  elevator 
boys  and  even  for  starters.  It  always  did  take 
a  woman  to  start  things. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  Is  this  a  garden  club  or  is 
it  not?  As  I  was  saying,  we  ought  to  use  par 
liamentary  laws. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  But,  my  dear,  I  am  your  pres 
ident  and  I  don't  know  anything  about  par 
liamentary  laws. 

MRS.  STEIMER.     We  don't  any  of  us. 

MRS.  ADDISON  [rather  tremulously].  I  am 
afraid  you  made  me  your  president  just  because 
of  my  age. 

Miss  WATSON  [forgetting  her  timidity].  I  think 
that's  a  very  good  reason.  All  the  presidents  of 
banks  are  old  men. 

120 


THE    STORM 


MRS.  SMYTHE.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  were  the 
natural  president  because  you  have  the  biggest 
garden. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  That's  the  way  things  are 
done.  In  a  business  company  the  richest  man, 
the  one  that  has  the  most  stock  is  always  the  one 
that's  elected  president  of  the  company. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  I  may  have  the  largest  gar 
den,  but  I  am  sure  it  isn't  the  choicest.  I'm  very 
humble  about  it.  And  now  that  we're  going  to 
be  a  war  garden  club  I  am  sure  mine  will  not 
excel.  I  have  always  had  a  small  vegetable  gar 
den  because  I  always  go  to  my  summer  cottage 
in  Mt.  Desert  for  the  warm  months. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  I  wish  we  could  have  another 
Red  Cross  drive.  My  little  girls  enjoyed  it  so. 
They  were  out  every  afternoon  and  had  a  per 
fectly  wonderful  time,  and  they  looked  so  cun 
ning  in  the  costume.  I  had  a  corking  time 
myself. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  It  was  fun,  wasn't  it?  I  stood 
and  rattled  my  tin-cup  in  front  of  the  bank  just 
like  a  Salvation  Army  lassie  and  held  up  all  my 
husband's  friends  as  they  went  in.  It  was  like 
a  play.  I  just  love  things  where  you  have  to 
dress  up.  Don't  you  think  we  could  give  another 
fete?  For  the  Italian  orphans  or  something? 

MRS.  STEIMER.  It  would  be  fun.  We  could 
have  an  East  Indian  booth.  The  costumes  are 
so  becoming. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  7  can  wear  almost 
any  kind  of  costume.  They're  all  becoming  to 
me.  But  I  have  to  wear  my  glasses  [they  are 

121 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

large  tortoise-shell  rims}   and  my  ground-gripper 
shoes. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  Oh,  you  look  lovely,  sweet 
heart,  in  anything.  You  have  so  much  presence. 
And  those  veils  the  Oriental  women  wear  would 
partly  cover  your  glasses. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  Oh,  here  is  Miss  Johnson. 
[She  arises  and  goes  to  greet  the  stranger,  who  comes 
in  puffing  and  hot  and  very  apologetic  for  being  /ate.] 

Miss  JOHNSON.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  to  have 
kept  you  waiting. 

MRS.  ADDISON  [kindly  and  benevolently].  We 
have  been  having  a  very  pleasant  time,  my  dear, 
while  we  were  waiting.  Don't  upbraid  yourself 
in  the  least.  We  always  have  a  pleasant  time. 

Miss  JOHNSON.  I  lost  my  way.  It  was  very 
stupid  of  me — I  walked  a  mile  up  the  wrong  road 
and  had  to  come  back. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  But  you  were  given  instruc 
tions  just  how  to  get  here? 

Miss  JOHNSON.  Oh,  yes,  I  made  a  mistake  in 
the  turn  of  the  road — it  was  all  my  fault — it  was 
all  my  own  stupidity.  I  am  always  doing  things 
like  that. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Perhaps  you  are  the  sort  of 
person  that  is  always  unfortunate.  There  are 
such  people,  you  know. 

Miss  JOHNSON  [resignedly].     Maybe  I  am. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Now  that  you  are  here  at 
last,  you  can  tell  us  so  much  about  what  we  want 
to  know — what  we  need  to  know. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  is  the  meeting  actually 
going  to  begin?  I  am  all  in  a  flutter! 

I  22 


THE    STORM 


MRS.  ADDISON.  What  was  the  subject  you 
were  going  to  address  us  upon? 

Miss  JOHNSON.  The  food  values  of  our  com 
mon  vegetables. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  The 
food  values  of  our  common  vegetables.  Ladies, 
Miss  Johnson  of  the  Institute  will  now  address 
us  on  the  very  important  subject  of  the  food 
values  of  our  common  vegetables. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Food  values,  indeed.  It  is 
the  money  values  of  vegetables  that  people  are 
interested  in.  With  tomatoes  at  seven  cents 
apiece  and  peas  at  forty  cents  a  small  meas 
ure. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  Dear  me,  are  they  so  high? 
My  housekeeper  hadn't  told  me. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  High?  Why,  they  sell  onions 
and  cabbage  by  the  pound  now.  Think  of  it! 

MOLLIE.  Even  the  low-brow  yellow  banana  is 
not  sold  now  in  families  of  a  dozen,  but  as  an 
individual. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY  [in  wrath].  Is  this  a  market 
quotation  or  is  it  a  garden  club?  Are  we  going 
to  listen  to  Miss  Johnson  or  are  we  not? 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  Ladies, 
we  are  now  going  to  listen  to  Miss  Johnson  of  the 
Institute  address  us  on  the  subject  of  valuable 
vegetables  as  food. 

Miss  WATSON.     Oh,  I  am  so  excited! 

Miss  JOHNSON  [modesty  slow,  and  apologetic 
always].  Ladies,  in  talking  to  you  about — about 
—about  the  subject  Mrs.  Addison  has  just  men 
tioned,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  apologise  to  the 

123 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

members  of  the  Garden  Club  who  must  know  so 
much  more  about  vegetables  than  I  do. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY  [cynically].  We  don't  know 
beans  about  anything.  We've  been  a  flower- 
garden  club — just  little  ephemeral  butterflies  is 
what  we  are,  without  any  system  or  efficiency  or 
parliamentary  rules  or  anything. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  But  now  we  are  turning  into 
a  war  garden  club. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  Just  like  a  butterfly  turning 
into  a  moth.  [Smiling  delightedly.] 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  We're  going  to  get  some 
efficiency  into  us  if  we  have  to  dig  to  China  for 
it.  [She  grits  her  teeth.] 

MOLLIE  [aside  to  Clementine].  She'll  get  effi 
ciency  into  us  if  she  has  to  wring  our  necks  to  do  it. 

[There  is  a  moment's  lull,  then  Miss  Johnson 
resumes  hesitatingly  in  an  effort  to  give  her 
lecture.] 

Miss  JOHNSON.  It  is  only  in  recent  years  that 
people  have  begun  to  think  about  food  values. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  it's  only  since  the  war 
began  that  food  has  been  so  high.  Why,  you 
have  to  pay  fifteen  cents  a  loaf  for  Peterson's 
bread  now  that  used  to  be  eight. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  You  ought  to  be  willing 
and  glad  to  pay  it.  You  ought  to  be  willing  to 
starve. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  I  am.  I'm  as  patriotic 
as  anybody.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  starve,  or, 
what  is  worse,  I'm  willing  to  eat  the  saw-dust 

124 


THE    STORM 


they  give  us  in  bread,  but  what  I  do  object  to  is 
the  grocers  making  money  off  us. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  That's  it  exactly — they  make 
money  while  we  have  to  do  without  the  things 
we  need.  Why,  my  husband  was  going  to  buy 
two  new  automobiles  this  spring,  as  usual,  he 
always  does — one  for  the  family  and  one  for 
himself, — and  our  grocers'  bills  had  gone  up  so 
he  said  he  just  couldn't  afford  to — he  could  only 
afford  to  buy  one  and  the  family  would  have  to 
do  with  the  old  one.  Of  course  that  means  using 
a  last  year's  model.  It  seems  perfectly  absurd 
not  to  be  able  to  afford  what  you  need  and  to 
have  to  put  so  much  money  into  mere  food. 

Miss  JOHNSON  [very  hesitatingly].  There  are 
people,  you  know — poor  people — who  always 
have  to  put  everything  they  make  into  food. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  They  do  that — they  eat  up 
all  they  make — they're  perfect  gluttons. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  They  eat  up  everything  they 
make,  when  they  ought  to  be  saving  nine-tenths 
of  their  wages. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY  \juriously].  Is  this  a  garden 
club  or  is  it  not? 

Miss  JOHNSON  [slowly — she  is  a  sweef,  simple 
sou!,  who  speaks  always  with  modesty  and  hesita 
tion].  Now  there  are  a  great  many  people  who 
do  not  know  very  much  about  the  properties  of 
fats  and  starch  and  sugars. 

MRS.  STEIMER  [groaning].     Sugar  is  so  high. 

CLEMENTINE.  Have  you  heard  about  the — the 
— maybe  I'd  better  not  mention  the  name — a 
family  out  in  Glen  Arden,  who  had  their  house 

125 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

filled  with  stores?  The  government  officers  got 
on  to  it  and  found  five  barrels  of  sugar  in  their 
attic. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.     They  ought  to  be  interned. 

CLEMENTINE.     But  they're  Americans. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  I  don't  care — they  ought 
to  be  interned. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  I  have  a  good  deal 
laid  away. 

MRS.  STEIMER.     You  have  to  have. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  They  say  at  Atlantic  City  you 
can't  get  sugar  for  love  nor  money.  You  just 
have  to  tip  the  waiters  hugely  at  every  meal 
continuously. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Talking  about  sugar  and  veg 
etables,  when  there  is  such  a  shortage  of  sugar  I 
have  been  thinking  of  something.  They  talk  so 
much  about  beet  sugar — now  I  don't  see  why  we 
couldn't  just  use  beets — just  plain  beets,  you 
know,  instead  of  sugar  or  molasses  or  syrups. 

MOLLIE.     That  beats  the  juice. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  Is  this  a  garden  club,  and 
are  we  going  to  listen  to  Miss  Johnson  or  are 
we  not? 

[In   the   momentary   silence   Miss   Johnson   re 
sumes.] 

Miss  JOHNSON.  Well — er — er — as  you  prob 
ably  all  know,  vegetables  differ  somewhat  in  their 
properties  of  starch  and  sugar  and — 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  personally,  I  have 
cut  out  sugar.  My  doctor  says  it's  fattening,  so 
I'm  glad  to  give  my  share  to  the  soldiers. 

126 


THE    STORM 


MRS.  SMYTHE  [smiling  benignly].  I'm  sure 
that's  doing  your  bit. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Personally,  I  don't  care  for 
beets,  they  seem  to  me  so  plebeian,  but  I'm  per 
fectly  willing  to  raise  a  lot  of  them — for  the 
people,  you  know,  to  use  in  place  of  sugar.  Have 
you  put  any  beets  in? 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  No,  I  put  all  my  garden  in 
corn.  I'm  very  fond  of  corn. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  It  always  gives  me  a  violent 
indigestion. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Corn?  How  absurd!  Corn 
couldn't  disagree  with  anybody.  I've  put  all 
my  garden  in  corn,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  half 
of  it  myself  and  send  the  other  half  to  the  Red 
Cross  or  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  or  something. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  It  might  be  sent  to  the  orphans 
in  Italy. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  We  were  a  little  late  getting 
it  in,  but  the  cunning  little  blades  are  all  begin 
ning  to  show  now.  It's  only  July  and  there's  all 
the  rest  of  the  summer  for  it  to  grow  in — if  it 
only  gets  plenty  of  rain. 

MOLLIE.  It  will  get  some  this  afternoon.  The 
storm  is  coming  fast. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  You  know  what  they  say  about 
putting  all  your  eggs  in  one  basket.  I  thought 
of  that,  and  so  instead  of  trusting  to  one  vegetable 
I  have  put  everything  in  my  garden.  Onions  and 
turnips  and  corn  and  rhubarb — I  had  James  put 
them  all  in  together  early  in  the  spring.  James 
never  gardened  before — he  has  always  been  a 

127 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

butler,  but  he  is  as  interested  in  gardening  now 
as  I  am. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  Are  your  vegetables  all  doing 
well? 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  That's  the  advantage  of  not 
having  all  your  eggs  in  one  basket,  you  know. 
They  all  started  well,  the  dear  little  green  things, 
though  of  course  most  of  them  have  died. 

Miss  WATSON  [with  an  access  at  last  of  daring\. 
I  haven't  started  my  garden  yet,  but  I'm  going 
to  have  nothing  but  mushrooms.  I'm  so  fond  of 
them,  and  they  take  the  place  of  meat,  you 
know.  I  am  going  to  have  an  entire  acre  ploughed 
up  for  a  garden  for  them,  and  I  shall  keep  only 
half  of  them  myself  and  send  the  other  half  to 
the  soldiers  in  France.  I  know  I'm  a  little  late 
starting  my  garden,  but  mushrooms  grow  so  fast, 
and  with  all  the  hot  summer  sun  I'm  sure  there 
ought  to  be  a  big  crop  by  September. 

Miss  HOLWORTHY  [groaning].  Is  this  a  prac 
tical  garden  club  conducted  with  method  and 
efficiency  or  is  it  not?  And  are  we  going  to  listen 
to  Miss  Johnson  or  are  we  not? 

[There  is  a  moment's  pause,  then  Miss  Johnson 
tentatively  resumes.] 

Miss  JOHNSON.     As  I  was  saying,  starch — 

CLEMENTINE.  I  suppose  we'll  be  eating  the 
laundry  starch  soon  and  go  without  it  in  our 
clothes. 

MOLLIE.    Wearing  it  inside  instead  of  out. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  the  doctors  say  starch 
128 


THE    STORM 


is  fattening  like  sugar.  I  have  tried  to  cut  out 
all  starchy  and  saccharine  foods,  but  there  is  so 
little  left  to  eat. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.     You  do  look  starved,  darling. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  You  can't  tell  from  people's 
being  fat  whether  they  are  big  eaters  or  not. 
Some  of  the  fattest  people  are  the  smallest  eaters 
and  some  of  the  thinnest  people  are  huge  eaters. 

MOLLIE.  It  seems  to  me  I  have  heard  that 
statement  before. 

CLEMENTINE.  Winifred  always  says  it  when 
ever  Charlie's  size  is  mentioned.  Charlie  has  an 
enormous  appetite — everybody  knows  it.  He 
always  eats  everything  in  sight. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  He  must  be  trained  down  now 
that  he  has  been  in  an  officers'  reserve  camp. 

CLEMENTINE.  I  don't  see  how  Charlie  can  get 
to  be  an  officer.  Why,  he  never  passed  an  ex 
amination  in  his  life. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  But  you  know  his  uncle  is  a 
senator. 

CLEMENTINE.  Winifred  has  so  many  service 
flags  for  Charlie.  She  had  them  all  made  of  satin 
and  trimmed  with  gold  fringe — one  in  the  front 
door,  one  in  each  automobile,  one  at  the  garage, 
one  on  his  locker  at  the  golf  club,  one  on  each  of 
the  servants. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  That  must  be  so  encouraging 
to  the  people.  The  more  service  flags  they  see 
the  more  will  they  be  influenced  to  enlist.  We  of 
our  class  must  do  all  in  our  power  to  show  the 
people  an  example  of  patriotism  and  zeal. 

MRS.  STEIMER.    That  is  exactly  why  we  women 

9  129 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

should  wear  our  service  flags  all  the  time  as  en 
couragement  and  example  to  the  people.  It 
isn't  ostentation  at  all. 

MOLLIE.     There's  thunder. 

CLEMENTINE  [to  Mrs.  Steimer].  Who  is  your 
service  flag  for? 

MRS.  STEIMER.  My  nephew.  I  have  only  two 
little  daughters  myself,  but  my  nephew  represents 
the  family. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.    I  wear  mine  for  a  cousin's  son. 

Miss  WATSON.     I  wear  mine  for  a  cousin. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  I  wear  mine  for  my  brother-in- 
law. 

MOLLIE.  I  wear  mine  for  my  sister-in-law's 
son. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  I  wear  mine  for  my  niece's 
brother-in-law. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Well,  I  wear  mine  for  my  own 
dear  boy. 

CLEMENTINE.  Isn't  it  strange  that  out  of  all 
of  us  Mrs.  Addison  is  the  only  one  who  actually 
has  a  son  in  the  service? 

MOLLIE.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  A  good  many  of 
us  couldn't  very  decently  have  sons,  could  we? 
You  or  I  or  Miss  Lily  or  Miss  Anne — 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  Is  this  a  garden  club  or 
not,  and  are  you  going  to  let  Miss  Johnson  talk 
or  not? 

[They  all  subside,  and  Miss  Johnson  hesitantly 
clears  her  throat  and  begins  again.} 

Miss  JOHNSON.  Different  vegetables  differ  in 
their  food  values  and  they  also  differ  in  the 

130 


THE    STORM 


amounts  of  starch  they  contain  and  of  sugar,  and 
so  on. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  I  adore  all  vegetables.  I  am  a 
perfect  vegetarian. 

MRS.  DRAHO.  Well,  I  think  we  have  all  been 
eating  too  much  meat.  It  seems  to  me  that  this 
war  garden  movement  is  valuable  that  way,  too. 
It  will  make  people  raise  more  vegetables  and 
naturally  be  more  interested  in  eating  them. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Well,  the  people  need  food 
containing  calor'ies — or  is  it  pronounced  cal'ories? 

MOLLIE.  I  don't  know — you  always  say 
chol'eric  old  gentlemen. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  One  can  never  tell  where 
the  accent  falls  in  these  Greek  derivations. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  And  caffeine — they  need  a 
great  deal  of  caffeine,  too — or  is  it  that  they 
don't  need  it?  I  never  can  remember. 

CLEMENTINE.  There's  thunder  again.  Do  you 
notice  how  dark  it's  getting?. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  I  hope  we  are  not  going  to 
have  a  storm.  I  am  so  timid  in  storms. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  The  war  garden  movement  is 
valuable  that  way.  It  does  interest  people  in 
vegetables  and  they  naturally  like  to  eat  their 
own  vegetables.  And  then  when  there  are  so 
many  vegetables  growing  there  is  the  natural 
tendency  to  eat  them. 

MOLLIE.  I  suppose  that's  the  way  cannibals 
feel. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  it  is  a  wonderful  movement, 
isn't  it? 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  STEIMER.  And  then  our  having  war 
gardens  is  such  a  splendid  example  to  the  people. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  And  it  is  doing  our  bit.  [Smil 
ing  delightedly.] 

Miss  HOLWORTHY.  I  haven't  seen  that  we've 
done  much  yet.  Are  you  going  to  listen  to  Miss 
Johnson  ? 

CLEMENTINE.  There's  thunder  again.  My, 
but  it's  getting  dark. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  do  you  think  we  are  going 
to  have  a  very  awful  storm?  I  am  so  timid  in 
storms. 

CLEMENTINE.  I  am  afraid  it  is  going  to  be  a 
hard  storm.  It  is  getting  dark  so  rapidly. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  I  don't  in  the  least  mind.  I 
adore  storms.  There  is  something  wonderful  and 
big  in  the  crashing  of  a  storm. 

MRS.  ADDISON.  Over  there  at  the  battle  front 
it  must  be  like  a  great  storm  all  the  time.  I  al 
ways  think  in  a  storm  that  it  is  like  what  my  boy 
is  experiencing,  and  I  like  to  feel  that  I  am  near 
him  then. 

MRS.  LAWRENCE.  Another  reason  why  the 
war  garden  movement  is  excellent  is  that  the  ex 
ercise  is  so  fine  for  the  people.  Of  course  I  went 
into  it  purely  with  unselfish  motives — only  with 
the  desire  to  do  my  bit — but  I  do  hope  that  the 
exercise  may  reduce  me  some.  I  intend  to  spade 
and  hoe  and  rake  and  do  everything,  just  as  if  I 
were  a  peasant. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  That's  the  spirit  of  democracy 
— isn't  it  splendid? 

132 


THE    STORM 


MRS.  LAWRENCE.  I  should  hope  it  might  re 
duce  me  twenty  pounds  in  the  season. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  Oh,  it  will  be  beneficial  to  the 
health  of  all  of  us. 

MOLLIE.    It  is  getting  perfectly  pitch  black. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  I  am  so  terrified!  Mrs. 
Draho,  is  your  house  wired  for  lightning? 

MOLLIE.  I  don't  see  how  we  can  go  on.  We 
can't  see  each  other  talk. 

MRS.  DRAHO.     Shall  I  turn  on  the  lights? 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  no,  please  don't  turn  on 
the  lights!  I  am  so  afraid  to  have  the  electricity 
turned  on. 

MRS.  STEIMER.  No,  don't  turn  on  the  lights — 
I  love  to  watch  the  storm. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  I  never  saw  anything  come  on 
so  rapidly. 

MOLLIE.  It  has  been  brewing  all  afternoon. 
Things  come  that  way — slowly,  and  you  don't 
notice  them  till  they  suddenly  break. 

CLEMENTINE.     Just  like  the  war. 

MRS.  STEIMER.     It  is  black  as  midnight. 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  I  am  so  terrified.  Do  you 
think  it  will  strike  us? 

MRS.  ADDISON.  We  are  under  shelter.  I  keep 
thinking  it  is  like  what  my  boy  is  hearing. 

[If  grows  very  dark,  so  that  objects  on  the  stage 
become  so  dim  they  are  scarcely  seen  at  all. 
At  the  back  suddenly  appears  a  light,  so  that 
the  stage  is  in  complete  darkness.  In  the  light 
there  is  a  vision  of  a  young  soldier,  screened 
off,  and  therefore  somewhat  indistinct.  He  is 
133 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

in  khaki,  dressed  as  he  would  be  in  the  trenches , 
rather  battered  and  worn.  He  moves  about  a  little 
as  if  restless  and  with  something  on  his  mind, 
finally  stands  perfectly  still,  folds  his  arms 
across  his  breast  and  stares  straight  ahead,  his 
eyes  somewhat  cast  upward,  as  if  looking  into 
the  far  distance  \ 

SOLDIER.  Mother — dear!  [He  speaks  at  first 
slowly,  his  voice  low  and  tense  as  if  with  a  supreme 
effort  to  carry  through  his  intent^  Mother,  I  am 
feeling  so  very  near  you  tonight.  I  want  to 
write  you  a  letter,  for  if  anything  happens  to  me 
tomorrow  I'd  like  you  to  know  that  you  had  my 
last  word,  my  last  thought.  We've  been  ordered 
to  attack  at  dawn,  and  I  shall  be  in  the  first  line. 
It's  not  the  big  offensive — if  that  is  ever  going 
to  come,  and  I  hope  it  will  soon,  God  knows — 
it's  just  going  to  be  a  little  skirmish,  but  one  can 
get  killed  in  a  small  skirmish  as  well  as  in  a  big 
offensive,  and  I  somehow  feel  so  at  the  end  of 
things  that  it  makes  me  think  seriously  perhaps 
this  is  my  last  night.  Night!  Yes,  deep  night 
here  with  us,  but  I  always  calculate  the  difference 
of  time,  and  it's  only  afternoon  with  you — yes 
terday  afternoon.  I  want  with  all  my  heart  to 
write  you  a  letter — if  only  just  a  note  of  my  love 
and  thought  of  you,  but  we  are  not  permitted 
even  a  match  now  here  in  the  front  trenches. 
I  don't  know  whether  there's  anything  in  telepathy 
or  not — [he  speaks  slowly,  wonderingly\  sometimes 
I  think  there  is.  Anyhow,  it's  all  I've  got  now 
between  me  and  you.  And  I'm  going  to  try  it — 

134 


THE    STORM 


to  feel  and  think  as  intensely  to  you  as  I  can  and 
to  talk  to  you.  Do  you  hear  me,  dear?  Oh,  be 
near  me,  Mother!  I  have  only  a  few  moments 
left  with  you,  for  we  have  work  to  do  before  the 
attack,  which  is  to  begin  at  daybreak. 

I've  done  what  I  wanted  to  do,  the  right  and 
glorious  thing,  the  only  thing  possible  for  me  to 
do,  even  if  I  take  my  life  away  from  you  and  you 
are  left  desolate.  You  must  be  satisfied  and  proud, 
for  it's  a  big  thing  to  be  able  to  fight  in  this  war. 
Better  fellows  than  I  have  been  ruled  out,  unfit 
because  of  eyes  or  heart  or  something.  I  was 
sound  and  healthy  and  your  harum-scarum, 
happy-go-lucky  kid  has  stood  hardships  you 
would  never  believe  possible  for  me  to  stand. 

It's  been  so  different  from  what  I  expected,  so 
very  much  harder  and  more  awful  and  nicer,  too, 
in  some  ways.  The  quaint  little  villages  and  the 
lovely  country,  the  deep  woods.  Spring  was 
lovely.  Spring  in  France  is  marvelous,  or  rather 
summer,  for  it  was  like  jumping  from  winter  into 
summer — wonderful  after  the  long,  long  weeks  of 
grey  and  cold,  slime  and  mud  and  ice,  and  day 
after  day  of  lead-color  skies,  then  suddenly 
orchards  blooming  everywhere  and  birds  up  in 
the  woods  singing  all  day  long.  I  love  to  listen 
to  them,  especially  the  cuckoos  at  daybreak. 
I  remember  a  corner  of  a  field  full  of  buttercups 
by  a  forest — birds  calling  from  the  woods,  cuckoos 
and  wood-pigeons,  such  a  beautiful,  marvelous 
world  of  blue  and  green,  of  sweet,  fresh  spring, 
country  smells. 

That  on  the  one  side  and  then  these  trenches, 

135 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

these  horrible  holes  in  the  ground  where  men  and 
rats  and  vermin  live  side  by  side,  and  there  is 
mud  and  slimy  straw  and  worse — and  stenches. 
And  when  the  weather  is  hot  that  pungent,  sick 
ening,  awful  smell  of  rotting  bodies  out  in  No- 
Man's  Land.  I  smelled  it  once  all  mixed  up  with 
the  scent  of  blossoming  orchards. 

There's  no  glory  in  the  trenches,  no  glory  in 
this  sort  of  warfare.  It's  just  brute  endurance  of 
what  your  soul  hates,  just  stolid  determination 
to  carry  on.  When  a  rat  runs  over  my  foot,  or  I 
reach  under  my  shirt  to  kill  a  louse,  I  just  keep 
my  lips  shut,  because  I  know  it's  all  in  the  big 
game  and  can't  be  helped,  and  I'm  better  off  than 
the  fellow  next  me,  who  has  a  weak  stomach 
yet  never  says  a  word  of  complaint  about  any 
thing.  That's  about  all  the  valor  there  can  be 
in  this  kind  of  war — keeping  your  mouth  shut 
and  keeping  your  head  if  you  can  when  you  feel 
yourself  going  crazy.  And  the  firing.  Some 
times  it's  just  a  little  spitting  and  cracking,  some 
times  the  great  huge  booming,  the  shrieking, 
bursting  of  shells,  cannonading.  A  big  thunder 
storm  at  home  gives  you  a  little  idea  of  it.  But 
I  wouldn't  be  anywhere  else,  dear.  I'm  standing 
it,  for  I'm  fighting  for  what  I  believe  in  with 
every  drop  of  my  blood.  I'm  in  the  big  game, 
and  I  know  that  here  is  honesty  and  straight 
forwardness.  Here  is  no  sham,  no  littleness,  no 
sentimentality,  no  parade  of  false  virtues.  It's  a 
struggle,  it's  life  shorn  of  all  parlor  tricks. 

I   can't   talk  to  you   any  longer,   Mother.     I 
wonder  if  you  hear,  if  you  see  me?     It's  night 

136 


THE    STORM 


and  dark  here,  because  it's  cloudy.  I  don't  see 
the  moon  or  a  star.  It's  yesterday  afternoon 
with  you.  I  wonder  if  you're  in  the  garden— 
your  pretty  garden  that  I  used  to  look  down  into 
from  my  bed-room  window  in  the  morning.  I 
wonder  if  you  have  many  roses  this  year  and  if 
there  are  any  gold-fish  in  the  pool?  I  think  I'll 
have  the  pool  deepened  when  I  get  home,  so  I 
can  swim  in  it.  That'll  be  hard  on  the  gold-fish. 
There,  I'm  called.  I've  got  to  go,  dear.  There 
are  things  to  do.  We  attack  at  daybreak. 

[He  ceases  speaking.  The  vision  disappears  and 
the  room  is  left  in  darkness  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  the  light  comes  on  and  the  ladies  are  seen 
seated  as  before.} 

MRS.  DRAHO  [at  the  door}.  Well,  that  was  the 
most  awful  storm.  I  am  so  sorry  you  were  left 
in  the  dark.  I  tried  my  best  to  turn  on  the  lights, 
but  it  seemed  the  electricity  wouldn't  work. 
[The  maid  speaks  to  her  at  the  door.  She  answers , 
then  turns  back  to  the  group.}  Oh,  Mrs.  Addison, 
there  is  someone  wants  to  speak  to  you,  a  mes 
sage.  [Mrs.  Addison  gets  up  and  goes  out,  fol 
lowed  by  Mrs.  Draho.} 

MRS.  STEIMER.  I  wonder  if  possibly  the  house 
was  struck? 

Miss  WATSON.  Oh,  do  you  think  it  could  have 
been?  I  am  all  in  a  tremor.  I  do  believe  I  had 
a  shock. 

MOLLIE.  If  it  had  been  struck  all  the  wires 
would  have  been  knocked  out,  and  you  see  the 
lights  are  all  right  now. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Miss  WATSON.  I  feel  sure  something  must 
have  been  struck.  I  feel  positive  I  have  had  a 
shock. 

MOLLIE.  It's  still  raining.  It's  going  to  be 
sloppy  going  home.  I  think  it's  going  to  keep 
on  raining  all  evening. 

[Mrs.  Draho  re-enters  looking  white  and  fright 
ened.    They  all  gaze  at  her.} 

MRS.  DRAHO.  I  have  some  bad  news.  It  has 
just  come.  Mrs.  Addison  has  been  sent  for.  Her 
son  has  been  killed.  It  happened  some  time  ago, 
but  the  word  has  just  come  through  Washington. 
Her  housekeeper  came  over  to  tell  her  and  take 
her  home.  It  seems  he  was  in  an  attack.  He 
would  have  received  the  cross  of  honor.  Maybe 
it  will  be  sent  to  her. 

MRS.  SMYTHE.  He  was  her  youngest,  her 
baby,  the  only  one  she  had  left,  the  others  died 
years  ago.  And  he  was  only  twenty-one. 

MOLLIE.  But  he  was  doing  something.  He 
was  leading  his  life  splendidly.  He  was  straight 
and  honest.  He  was  doing  something  great. 
And  then — there  must  have  been  something  else 
— he  must  have  seen  buttercups  and  heard  wood- 
pigeons  and  watched  the  dawn. 

[CURTAIN.] 


138 


IN  HEAVEN 

PERSONS: 

GEORGE  THE  THIRD. 
Louis  THE  FOURTEENTH. 
FREDERICK  THE  GREAT. 
JULIUS  CAESAR. 

TIME: 
A  MOMENT  IN  THE  GREAT  WAR. 

[The  scene  is  in  Heaven.  The  lighting  is  dim 
and  seems  to  come  up  from  below  in  a  faint,  rosy 
glow,  for  obvious  reasons.  On  some  nice  com 
fortable  soft  grey  clouds  three  shades  are  sitting; 
another,  remote  in  spirit,  stands  balancing  him 
self  sedately  on  a  cloud  in  the  background.  Al 
though  clad  in  soft  and  rather  filmy  draperies, 
these  three  are  robust  shades.  They  wear  their 
crowns  or  halos,  but  have  stacked  their  harps 
together  on  another  cloud  nearby.  One  of  them, 
Frederick,  is  peering  with  deep  interest  in  front 
of  him  down  below  whence  comes  the  rosy  glow. 
One,  Louis,  more  interested  in  himself  than  in 
anything  else,  is,  however,  observing  the  remote 
and  solitary  shade.  One  of  them,  George,  has  a 
spy-glass  and  an  ear-trumpet  and  is  absorbed  in 
watching  and  listening  to  what  is  going  on  away 
off  to  the  right.] 

139 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

GEORGE  [moving  restlessly  on  his  seat  as  if  try 
ing  to  get  a  better  view,  shifting  his  spy-glass  and 
ear-trumpet,  and  speaking  somewhat  irritably]. 
The  clouds  get  in  my  way  so!  It's  hard  enough 
anyhow  to  watch  what  is  going  on  down  on  the 
Earth — what  with  comets  flying  by  and  shooting 
stars — and  it's  hard  enough  at  best  to  see  through 
the  Milky  Way.  But  now  there  are  so  many 
clouds  hanging  about  the  Earth,  particularly  over 
the  spot  of  Europe.  They  get  in  my  way  fear 
fully. 

Louis  [laughing].  They  are  not  the  first  thing 
that's  been  in  your  way,  Georgie.  It  seems  to 
me  I  can  remember  several  things.  You  have 
the  habit  of  getting  yourself  in  front  of  obstacles. 
George  Washington  was  one  of  them,  for  in 
stance. 

GEORGE  [exploding].  Louis,  don't  you  ever 
dare  to  speak  to  me  of  that  man! 

FREDERICK.  It  is  the  war  they  are  having 
down  on  the  Earth  that  makes  the  clouds.  The 
explosion  of  gunpowder  always  brings  rain. 

Louis.  Keep  your  mouth  shut,  Fritz!  WTe 
have  decided  to  hold  no  further  conversation  with 
you — in  short,  to  cut  you  dead. 

CAESAR  [somber  and  speaking  in  a  melancholy 
tone  of  voice].  Why  are  you  gentlemen  quarreling 
so?  It  reminds  me  painfully  of  the  days  of  the 
First  Triumvirate,  which  brings  back  the  mel 
ancholy  remembrance  of  my  death.  But  would 
you  mind  telling  me  who  you  all  are?  I  am 
a  lonely  ghost  and  should  enjoy  the  pleasure  of 
your  acquaintance.  I  myself  am  Caius  Julius 

140 


IN    HEAVEN 


Caesar,  commonly  known   by   the  last  name  in 
the  series,  merely. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  yes,  Caesar!  A  good  old  Bible 
name. 

FREDERICK  [jumping  up  to  go  over  and  grasp 
the  hand  of  Ccesar].  Damned  glad  to  know  you, 
Caesar!  I  have  always  thought  that  you  and  I 
were  kindred  spirits — that  is,  when  you  were  in 
your  prime. 

Louis.  There,  there,  none  of  that,  Fritz!  If 
you  keep  on  being  obtrusive,  you'll  be  thrust  into 
the  outer  darkness.  Don't  shake  hands  with  him, 
Caesar,  my  friend.  You  are  an  Italian,  remember. 

FREDERICK  [laughing  derisively].  A  Dago — 
ha-ha! 

Louis.  M.  Caesar,  I  am  most  happy  to  pre 
sent  my  friend,  George  the  Third  of  England, 
and  myself,  Louis  the  Fourteenth  of  France. 
This  ruffian  here  is  Frederick  of  Prussia.  We  are 
on  friendly  terms  with  him,  or  the  reverse,  ac 
cording  to  whether  our  nations  are  at  war  with 
each  other  or  not.  At  present  we  are  down  on 
him  fearfully  and  are  ignoring  and  insulting  him 
as  much  as  possible.  I  must  confess,  M.  Caesar, 
that  I  would  have  preferred  you  to  be  Nero  or 
even  Augustus.  Nevertheless  I  am  delighted  to 
meet  you,  and  I  have  a  great  mind  to  create  you 
the  Comte  de  Tiber.  No!  I  have  it!  I  will 
create  you  Comte  de  Marche,  because  you  made 
so  many  splendid  marches. 

CESAR  [wailingly].  Oh,  don't  mention  March! 
The  idea  of  March  brings  back  the  Ides  of  March, 
which  are  a  most  unhappy  recollection. 

141 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

GEORGE.  By  George,  man,  why  are  you  so 
somber  and  pathetic  and  melancholy,  as  if  you 
were  trying  to  impersonate  Sir  Henry  Irving? 

OESAR  [sighing].  It  is  one  of  the  tragedies  of 
the  after-life  that  we  spirits  must  take  the  form 
of  the  popular  image  of  us  down  on  the  Earth. 
Now  Shakespeare  ruined  me.  Of  course,  I  was 
never  remarkably  robust,  but  I  was  athletic  and 
military  and  developed  myself  to  the  very  utmost. 
And  I  was  a  successful  general,  if  I  do  say  it 
myself.  I  should  prefer  to  go  through  Eternity 
with  some  of  the  virility  of  my  middle-age.  But 
Shakespeare  chose  to  describe  me  in  my  latter 
days,  when  my  system  was  somewhat  shattered 
by  those  unfortunate  fits  I  had  had  all  my  life, 
and  henceforth  throughout  Eternity  I  must  al 
ways  be  Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar,  the  mere 
ghost  of  my  real  self. 

GEORGE.  It's  lucky  for  me  that  no  playwright 
depicted  me  in  my  latter  days  of  insanity.  It 
would  be  horribly  unpleasant  to  have  to  be  in 
sane  throughout  Eternity.  I  should  hate  it. 

Louis.  You  are  safe  from  dramatists,  Georgie. 
Your  madness  wasn't  interesting  enough.  You 
were  commonplace  in  that  as  in  everything  else. 

CAESAR  [meditatively].  I  understand  a  man  has 
written  a  book  called  Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar. 
That's  all  I  am.  The  skull  that  once  was  Yorrick! 
Think  of  it!  Ah!  [Sighs  deeply.} 

FREDERICK  [Mustering].  1  don't  believe  it.  I 
don't  believe  any  of  it.  You  are  practically  ac 
knowledging  that  a  weakling  dramatist  is  of 
more  importance  than  a  great  general.  That  his 

142 


IN    HEAVEN 


written  word  lives  and  that  he  has  an  influence 
on  thought,  that  he  influences  and  makes  history. 
Fudge!  Pst!  Pah! 

CAESAR  [going  on  absent-mindedly  in  his  own  sad 
trend  of  thought].  It  is  pleasanter  to  die  young 
and  live  on  throughout  Eternity  in  the  bloom  of 
youth.  Look  at  Rupert  Brooke  and  Keats,  for 
instance,  in  the  Poets'  Pasture  of  the  Elysian 
Fields.  There's  a  happy  fate  for  you! 

Louis.  Oh,  la,  Heaven  is  full  of  the  young 
just  at  present.  They  didn't  have  time  to  be 
bad,  poor  little  fellows!  The  war  got  them  first. 
But  the  other  place  will  fill  up  with  the  old  as 
time  goes  on. 

CESAR.  Yes,  those  who  made  the  war  have 
got  to  die  some  time. 

FREDERICK.  Well,  for  me,  I'm  glad  I  didn't 
die  young.  It's  more  sport  to  live  longer  and 
fight  a  few  wars  and  extend  your  kingdoms  and 
rule  with  a  rod  of  iron. 

Louis.  Silence,  Fritz!  Who  are  you,  to  pre 
sume  to  speak? 

GEORGE  [fixing  his  spy-glass  and  ear-trumpet 
again].  The  comfortable  thing  about  Heaven  is 
that  here  we  can  know  all  about  what  is  going  on 
in  the  world  without  the  great  bother  of  living. 

FREDERICK.  Oh,  comfort!  I  call  that  pure 
laziness.  I'd  much  rather  be  in  the  thick  of  the 
fight. 

Louis.    Silence,  Fritz! 

GEORGE.  Here  in  Heaven  we  know  what's 
going  on  before  and  after  we  died. 

Heaven,  as  you  call  it,  is  the  place 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

where  "we  look  before  and  after  and  sigh  for 
what  is  not." 

FREDERICK.  Oh,  everybody  knows  that  what 
you  are  sighing  for,  Caesar,  is  a  crown.  You  didn't 
get  it,  and  that  is  why  you  are  everlastingly  dis 
contented.  The  idea  of  refusing  a  crown!  You 
beat  the  Jews! 

GEORGE  [meditatively].  It  is  true  that  he  wasn't 
a  king.  The  fact  is  that  Caesar  was  only  a  near- 
king.  \After  the  briefest  pause  as  if  cogitating  over 
the  idea.]  I  don't  know  that  he  ought  to  be  al 
lowed  in  this  group — that  he  has  the  right  to  be 
associating  with  us. 

Louis.  Well,  George,  pardon  me,  but  if  my 
family  tree  were  as  bourgeois  as  yours,  I  don't 
think  I'd  bring  up  the  subject  of  qualifications  for 
royalty  at  all.  The  fact  is  that  I  am  the  only 
one  among  you  who  is  in  every  inch  a  king.  We 
French  are  a  very  modest  people.  Our  modesty 
is  founded  on  our  innate  understanding  of  our 
own  superiority  over  all  others.  Noblesse  oblige. 

GEORGE  [listening  with  his  ear-trumpet].  I  heard 
a  queer  thing  just  now  down  on  the  Earth.  Some 
one  said  that  the  only  place  left  for  kings  now 
adays  is  the  comic-opera  stage.  What  do  you 
suppose  he  meant  by  that? 

Louis.  He  meant  "after  us  the  deluge." 
[Laughs.] 

GEORGE.     I  don't  understand. 

Louis.     You  never  did  understand. 

C^SAR  [turning  to  them  wearily].  Whom  are 
the  Romans  fighting  now? 

GEORGE.    Oh,  the  Huns,  as  usual. 
144 


IN   HEAVEN 


FREDERICK.  Dummkopf!  Give  me  the  glass! 
[Seizes  it.]  You  English  have  a  way  of  telling 
things  so  as  to  make  a  man  believe  everything 
you  say.  [Looking  through  the  glass.]  Hah!  It  is 
as  I  thought,  the  Germans  are  victorious!  They 
are  at  present  conducting  a  victorious  retreat. 
The  Prussians  are  always  victorious.  No  matter 
how  things  turn  out,  no  matter  where  they  are, 
no  matter  what  the  people  think,  Prussians  are 
always  victorious.  Es  geht  ohne  sagen.  A  Prus 
sian  understands  that,  whether  anyone  else  does 
or  not.  It  is  in  his  will. 

Louis.    Rude  ruffian,  where  are  your  manners? 

FREDERICK.  Why  have  manners  when  one 
may  have  efficiency?  The  end  justifies  the  means. 

Louis.  Rude  ruffian,  give  me  the  glass!  \tVith 
a  grand  flourish  he  seizes  the  glass  and  stands 
peering  through  it.]  Ah,  it  is  as  I  thought.  The 
victory  is  to  the  French.  They  have  done  all 
the  fighting.  Their  generals  are  superb.  Every 
thing  is  in  France.  The  German  army — dogs — 
is  there,  the  English  army  is  there,  the  little 
Yankees  are  there.  France — ah,  France  is  the 
centre  of  the  universe! 

C^SAR.  Let  me  look  through  your  peculiar 
reed.  [He  takes  the  glass  and  gazes  through  it.] 
I  knew  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  Romans — 
Italians,  as  you  call  them — have  won  the  war. 
It  is  their  gallant  fighting  that  has  saved  the  day. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  talk  all  you  like,  but  you  are 
talking  rot.  When  it  comes  to  dividing  the 
spoils,  you'll  find  out  who  won  the  war.  The 
English. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

FREDERICK.  Well,  I  don't  care  how  much  you 
all  boast,  just  so  you  don't  give  any  credit  to 
those  fool  Americans.  Let's  keep  the  credit 
among  ourselves  here  in  Europe. 

CESAR.  Yes,  keep  the  credit  here  in  Europe, 
for  the  gold  is  in  America. 

Louis.  Silence,  Fritz!  What  have  you  to  do 
with  it?  We  pet  the  little  Yankees  and  pat  them 
on  the  back  and  kiss  them  on  both  cheeks. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  what  do  you  know  about  it, 
either  of  you  ?  [Listening  with  his  ear-trumpet  and 
both  eyes  tight  shut.]  They  belong  to  me,  those 
Americans. 

FREDERICK.  Devil  they  do!  Maybe  they  did 
once. 

GEORGE.  They  do  again.  You  keep  your 
awkward  feet  out  of  it.  Everybody  knows  you 
brought  on  the  war.  I  wouldn't  have  cared  so 
much — none  of  us  kings  would — but  the  dire 
outcome  of  it  is  that  those  fool  Yankees  got  busy 
about  democracy,  and  that  bloody  Woody  Wilson, 
with  all  his  insinuations  and  suggestions,  started 
your  Germans  to  thinking,  with  the  awful  result 
that  they  turned  themselves  into  a  republic  and 
— well,  where  is  it  going  to  end?  Looks  as  if  it 
would  end  with  the  end  of  us  kings  and  all  our 
families  on  the  Earth.  That  would  be  a  nice 
state  of  affairs,  wouldn't  it? 

Louis.  It  wouldn't  be  a  state  at  all.  /  am 
the  State. 

GEORGE.  It  sounds  as  though  even  that  per 
fectly  inoffensive  chap,  George  the  Fifth,  would 
have  to  abdicate.  He  does  no  harm.  He  doesn't 

146 


IN    HEAVEN 


do  a  thing  but  keep  up  appearances  and  the 
social  expense  budget,  and  somebody  has  got  to 
do  that  in  an  aristocracy. 

CAESAR  [reflectively].  The  Romans  never  ab 
dicated.  They  always  stabbed  them.  [Shivers.] 

Louis.  The  French  used  the  guillotine  a  good 
deal. 

CAESAR  [again  peering  through  the  telescope]. 
In  Russia  and  some  places  they  seem  to  shoot 
them. 

GEORGE.  Is  the  Czar  killed  again?  The  Eng 
lish  court  cannot  go  into  mourning  for  him 
every  time  he's  killed.  Still,  it  impresses  the 
people. 

Louis.  Listen,  if  you  can  all  keep  a  secret, 
I'll  tell  you  where  the  Czar  is. 

FREDERICK.  You?  How  do  you  know?  I 
don't  believe  it. 

Louis.  Who  should  know  better  than  I? 
Paris  always  knows  where  discharged  monarchs 
are.  But  you  mustn't  let  it  creep  out.  It  mustn't 
be  known  on  the  Earth. 

GEORGE.  Well,  none  of  us  ever  walks  on  the 
Earth  except  Caesar. 

CESAR.  You  mustn't  upbraid  me.  It  isn't 
kind  of  you  to  upbraid  me.  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  it  is  Shakespeare's  fault  that  my  ghost 
walks,  and  anyhow  my  ghost  never  warns  or  ad 
vises  or  tells  heavenly  secrets.  It  only  visits — 
like  relatives  or  a  bad  conscience. 

Louis.  Well,  then,  listen.  The  Czar  of  all  the 
Russians  has  been  shaved  and  let  his  hair  grow 
and  parted  it,  and  is  at  present  working  demurely 

H7 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

on  a  nice  celery  farm  just  out  of  Kalamazoo, 
Michigan. 

GEORGE.  Where  is  Michigan?  I  never  heard 
of  it. 

Louis.    It  is  one  of  your  lost  provinces. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  the  devil!  I  tell  you  they  have 
come  back. 

Louis.  Not  they.  You  wait  and  see.  America 
is  too  gay  a  place  for  the  people  to  want  to  leave 
it  and  go  back  to  English  graveyards. 

C^SAR.    What  is  this  place  you  call  America? 

Louis.  It  is  a  place  one  of  your  Italians  dis 
covered.  And  now  your  Italians  there  all  dig  in 
ditches  for  street  railroads.  • 

CAESAR  [proudly}.  The  Romans  were  always 
great  builders  of  roads. 

FREDERICK.  Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my 
countrymen ! 

CAESAR  [with  his  eye  at  the  telescope].  Gentle 
men,  from  the  way  things  are  going  in  Europe, 
it  looks  to  me  as  if  all  the  kings  would  have  to 
emigrate  to  America.  One  of  the  Austrian  royal 
house  is  already  planning  to  have  a  small  shoe- 
store  in  Cumminsville,  Ohio.  His  wife  has  saved 
a  little  and  will  set  him  up  in  business.  It  will 
be  convenient  and  economical,  because  the  family 
can  live  behind  the  store  and  keep  a  few  chickens. 

GEORGE.  I  understand  there  are  a  great  many 
chickens  in  America,  and  they  are  intending  to 
stock  France  with  them. 

Louis  [smiling.  Transporting  chickens  to 
Paris  would  be  a  good  deal  like  carrying  coals  to 
Newcastle,  wouldn't  it? 

148 


IN    HEAVEN 


CAESAR.  The  king  of  Greece  and  Alfonso  of 
Spain  are  going  into  partnership  and  will  set  up 
a  little  combination  shop — candy  and  fruit  and  a 
shoe-shining  parlor — fifteen  by  fifteen  feet,  on  the 
west  side  of  Clarke  Street,  Chicago.  Greece  will 
sell  the  candy  and  fruit  and  Alfonso  will  shine 
the  shoes.  Alf  expects  to  charge  eight  cents  a 
shoe  or  fifteen  for  the  pair.  Or  no!  I  have  got 
it  mixed!  It  is  Alf  who  is  going  to  sell  the  candy 
and  fruit  and  Greece  will  shine  the  shoes. 

FREDERICK.  Elbow  Greece  has  gone  up.  In 
fact,  everything  has  gone  up  but  brains.  What 
about  that  young  Willie  Hohenzollern  ?  Has  he 
any  prospects? 

CAESAR.  He  expected  to  go  into  partnership 
with  Manuel  of  Portugal,  but  Manny  saw  he  was 
going  to  come  out  the  little  end  of  the  horn,  as 
neither  of  them  wanted  to  work.  They  will  each 
have  to  get  partners  who  will  do  all  the  work. 
For  the  present  Manuel  expects  to  teach  colored 
dancing  classes — dancing  classes  of  young  darkies 
— in  Louisville,  Kentucky.  And  Willie  is  going 
to  tour  New  England  on  an  1898  bicycle  as  a 
book  agent  for  a  volume  his  father  wrote,  entitled 
"How  to  Shoot  Without  Ammunition." 

FREDERICK.     And  the  rest  of  my  family? 

CAESAR.  The  youngest  Hohenzollerns  have  all 
assumed  Welsh  names  and  are  going  to  be  cow 
boys  on  ranches  in  the  western  States  in  America. 

FREDERICK.     And  the  Kaiser? 

Louis.     Pardon  me,  the  Ex-Kaiser. 

CAESAR.  He  has  already  shaved  his  moustache 
and  has  grown  a  large  grey  beard  and  taken  the 

149 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

name  of  Hiram  Johnson,  and  is  going  to  assume 
the  parts  of  rustic  old  men  and  of  fathers  in  the 
movies  in  Hollywood. 

Louis.  How  about  that  delicate  man,  the 
Sultan  of  Turkey?  I  have  always  been  interested 
in  him.  He  is  one  of  the  few  romantic  figures 
left  among  modern  monarchs. 

CAESAR.  Oh,  he  is  happily  fixed.  He  has  em 
igrated  to  America  and  taken  out  papers  of 
citizenship  in  Utah  and  joined  the  Mormon 
church. 

GEORGE.  My  grandson,  George?  He  hasn't 
given  up  yet,  has  he? 

CAESAR.  Yes,  it  looks  as  if  he  were  going  to 
finally.  Of  course  the  English  are  the  very  last 
to  accept  innovations.  But  the  Church  of  Eng 
land  will  buy  him  a  nice  tidy  little  island  in  Lake 
Chautauqua. 

GEORGE.  That's  thoughtful  of  them  and  like 
them.  George  never  would  feel  comfortable  off 
an  island. 

Louis.  Lake  Chautauqua  was  discovered  by  a 
Frenchman.  By  rights  it  ought  to  belong  to 
France — all  America  ought  to  belong  to  France, 
for  that  matter.  I  know  all  about  Lake  Chau 
tauqua,  and  it  hasn't  any  islands. 

CAESAR.  Yes,  a  very  diminutive  one.  Perhaps 
it  was  built  just  for  him. 

GEORGE.  A  very  diminutive  one  would  satisfy 
George,  but  what  about  Mary  and  the  children? 

CAESAR.  She  will  have  a  boarding-house  on  the 
Assembly  Grounds  and  conduct  a  night  class  in 
dressmaking.  She  has  so  much  style,  you  know. 

150 


IN   HEAVEN 


GEORGE.  Chautauqua  will  suit  Mary.  She  is 
the  only  prohibitionist  that  ever  married  into 
our  family. 

Louis.  If  she  doesn't  get  to  flirting  with 
William  Jennings  Bryan,  I'll  miss  my  guess. 
They  were  just  cut  out  for  each  other. 

CAESAR.  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  you  have  a  low 
mind. 

Louis  [shrugging  his  shoulders}.  We  French  are 
of  the  Latin  race. 

CAESAR.  Well,  you  know  very  well  that  the 
Romans  were  very  particular,  very  particular. 

GEORGE.  Where  have  I  heard  that  said  be 
fore?  Oh,  on  the  Earth,  of  course — Harry 
Lauder  said  it  about  a  drunken  sailor. 

C^SAR.  We  took  our  matrimony  straight, 
absolutely  straight,  like  the  English. 

Louis.  I  have  always  thought  there  was  a 
similarity  between  the  Romans  and  the  English. 
I  wonder  no  one  else  has  ever  noticed  the  re 
semblance. 

CESAR.  Our  wives  were  good  souls.  Helpful. 
The  fact  is,  I  miss  Calpurnia  dreadfully.  She 
took  such  good  care  of  my  clothes  and  diet.  She 
always  had  my  togas  so  nicely  laundered  and  a 
hot-water  bottle  for  my  feet  at  night.  In  my 
later  years — I  always  call  them  my  Shakespearean 
years — I  suffered  so  miserably  from  cold  feet. 

FREDERICK.  You  have  told  us  all  about  the 
other  monarchs,  but  what  about  my  fool  grand 
son,  the  Kaiser?  What  is  he  doing  now  before 
he  goes  into  the  movies? 

Louis.    The  Ex-Kaiser,  you  mean. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

CJESAR  [gazing  through  the  telescope^  They 
have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  about  the  Ex- 
Kaiser.  You  see,  he  was  too  efficient.  There 
were  so  many  things  he  did  too  much. 

GEORGE.  He  ran  efficiency  into  the  ground — 
rather — didn't  he? 

Louis.  Overdone  efficiency  is  like  a  charred 
roast  of  beef. 

FREDERICK.  To  change  the  figure  somewhat,  it 
"o'erleaps  itself,"  as  your  Shakespeare  would  say. 

CAESAR.     My  Shakespeare? 

GEORGE.     Or  mine? 

FREDERICK.  That's  William  all  over.  He  tried 
to  be  so  all-round  that  he  ran  round  in  circles. 

Louis.    A  vicious  circle,  one  might  say. 

CAESAR.  I  see  that  they  tried  him  on  a  stock 
farm,  but  he  spent  all  his  time  drilling  the  cows 
to  march  in  battalions.  Then  they  put  him  in  a 
millinery  shop,  and  he  took  all  the  hats  to  pieces 
and  put  them  on  blocks  to  reshape  them  into 
helmets.  After  that  he  was  put  into  a  straw 
berry  patch,  but  he  tried  to  train  the  strawberries 
to  grow  in  rows  and  cut  off  the  buds  in  an  effort 
to  make  the  fruit  all  ripen  at  the  same  time. 
Then  they  hired  him  out  as  a  chauffeur,  but  he 
tried  to  get  ahead  of  everything  in  sight  and  had 
so  many  accidents  he  had  to  be  taken  out  of  that. 
Finally,  after  a  try-out  at  almost  everything — for 
he  said  he  could  do  anything — the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
made  up  a  little  purse  for  him  out  of  their  excess 
profits,  realizing  that  they  owed  it  to  him,  and 
bought  a  little  corner  store  for  him  down  in 
Hattieboro,  Kentucky.  And  there  he  sits  on  a 

152 


IN    HEAVEN 


cracker  barrel  by  an  air-tight  stove  and  tells  all 
the  other  loafers  how  the  U.  S.  A.  ought  to  be  run. 

Louis.  All  that  is  very  interesting.  But  what 
about  the  ladies?  Where  is  that  pretty  Queen 
Wilhemina,  the  Queen  of  Holland?  She  is  a 
buxom  maid,  a  man's  good  armful.  I  like  them 
plump. 

CESAR.  Oh,  she  still  lives  in  Holland  and  just 
as  usual.  They  have  been  placid  in  Holland. 
Of  course  she  was  deposed — placidly,  very  placidly 
deposed,  or  will  be — I  can't  quite  make  out 
which  [squinting  through  the  g/ass],  and  is,  or  will 
be,  president  of  a  mothers'  club  and  votes. 

Louis.  Votes — pah!  I  suppose  they  all  vote, 
much  good  it  may  do  them.  Fritz,  it  is  all  your 
fault — I'd  like  to  have  you  guillotined.  [Makes 
a  wild  dive  at  Frederick^  All  your  fault,  or  the 
fault  of  your  idiot  grandson,  for  getting  up  the 
war  and  thereby  precipitating  democracy  on  the 
Earth. 

FREDERICK  [dodging  him].  You  can't  cut  my 
head  off,  for  I'm  nothing  but  a  ghost,  and  you 
can't  cut  a  ghost's  head  off.  We're  all  spooks 
now,  not  kings.  Besides,  it  is  not  fair  to  blame 
me  for  what  William  did — it's  not  fair  to  visit 
the  sins  of  the  children  upon  the  fathers. 

GEORGE.  You  started  the  notion  of  the  in 
fallibility  of  royalty. 

FREDERICK.  I  never  did.  I  was  always  human 
— all  too  human.  I  wish  spooks  could  fight,  for 
then  you  would  see  whose  head  would  get  knocked 
off.  I  always  was  a  believer  in  the  strenuous  life, 
I  was.  But  this  William  was  spoiled,  his  father 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

was  too  easy  on  him.  I  taught  my  son  to  love 
me  by  beating  the  life  out  of  him.  You  can't  be 
too  tender  with  boys.  But  this  Hohenzollern — 
pah! — I'd  like  to  take  him  and  wring  his  neck — 
he's  ruined  all  I  built  up.  I'm  not  responsible 
for  him — not  I!  Emperor,  forsooth!  What  busi 
ness  had  he  to  write  poetry  and  compose  music 
and  think  he  was  blood-cousin  to  God?  Be- 
whiskered  and  be-sworded  baby!  That's  what  I 
think  of  my  descendant.  You  can  build  up  a 
kingdom  for  your  children,  but  you  can't  keep 
them  from  ruining  it. 

Louis.  They  had  a  lively  time  in  France  after 
my  day,  too.  These  moderns  don't  understand 
the  business  of  being  king. 

GEORGE.  My  little  George  does — or  Lloyd 
George,  I  forget  which.  Their  names  are  so 
alike  that  I  can't  remember  which  is  which  some 
times.  The  only  way  I  can  tell  the  difference  is 
that  George  has  a  beard  and  Lloyd  George  only 
a  moustache.  Anyhow,  they  understand  that  a 
king  nowadays  oughtn't  to  try  to  do  anything 
but  open  the  horse-show. 

C^SAR.  You  talk  as  if  there  were  a  lot  of  kings 
still  when  I've  told  you  they  are  abolishing 
them.  A  man  can't  afford  a  king  and  an  auto 
mobile  at  the  same  time. 

FREDERICK.  I  suppose  not,  unless  he  happens 
to  be  a  butcher,  and  they  can't  all  be  butchers. 
A  small  place  like  Chicago  can't  support  more 
than  about  two. 

Louis  [bitterly].  Well,  it's  a  crass  age,  and 
taste  for  the  picturesque  is  dead.  Men  prefer 

154 


IN    HEAVEN 


automobiles  to  kings.  Wha,t  is  the  world  coming 
to?  It  seems  that  people  are  beginning  to  prefer 
to  have  a  good  time  themselves,  rather  than  have 
kings  to  have  a  good  time  for  them. 

CAESAR  [sighing  heavily].  I  am  tired  of  gazing 
through  your  peculiar  reed.  And  I  am  lonely. 
There  hasn't  been  a  general  to  come  up  here  to 
Heaven  for  ever  so  long.  In  my  day  colonels 
and  generals  were  killed,  but  now  they  kill  off 
only  the  boys  and  presidents.  I  am  a  little  home 
sick  and  I  miss  the  ministrations  of  Calpurnia. 
I  would  fain  repose  me  somewhere. 

GEORGE.     Go  lie  down  on  the  harps. 

Louis.  Harps  are  cold  comfort.  He  said  he 
wanted  Calpurnia. 

C>ESAR.  I  regret  that  we  Romans  did  not 
think  differently  of  women — then  we  could 
have  them  all  with  us  in  the  after-world.  Cal 
purnia  was  a  good  soul,  gentlemen,  a  worthy 
person.  She  had  only  one  fault — she  would  have 
the  nightmare.  She  did  make  night  hideous 
with  her  cries  occasionally — especially  before  the 
Ides  of  March. 

GEORGE  [dropping  his  ear-trumpet].  By  George, 
it  is  lonesome  up  here  without  the  women.  There 
isn't  one  interesting  woman  in  our  set  up  here. 
Catherine  of  Russia,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  the 
Empress  of  China,  all  the  clever  ones  are  in  the 
other  place. 

Louis.  A  woman's  sins  are  never  done,  a 
man's  forgot  e'er  he  goes  to  heaven. 

GEORGE.  A  woman's  sins  are  never  done? 
155 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Do  you  mean  by  that  that  someone  else  does 
them  for  her? 

Louis.  Read  it  as  you  will — at  least  they  are 
never  forgiven.  That  is  why  heaven  is  so  dull 
for  us.  There  are  no  queens  here  except  Victoria. 

GEORGE  [bristling].  Don't  say  anything  against 
Victoria — she's  a  good  woman. 

Louis.  There,  there,  I  know  she  is — I  wouldn't 
say  a  word  against  her — I  honor  her  to  extinc 
tion,  I  assure  you.  But  her  place  is  Buckingham 
Palace.  A  good  woman's  place  is  the  home.  I 
am  an  anti-suffragist.  The  place  for  good  women 
is  the  home — I  want  a  few  places  left  where  you 
can  have  a  good  time. 

GEORGE.     But  Victoria  is  all  right. 

Louis.  Of  course  she  is,  that's  the  trouble. 
You  know  you  yourself  hid  from  her  just  a  little 
while  ago. 

GEORGE.  Well,  she  goes  around  talking  about 
the  children  all  the  time — you  have  to  escape 
her,  that's  only  self-preservation.  She  gives  long 
dissertations  on  how  Ally  had  the  measles  and 
Arty  the  mumps  and  Viccy  the  whooping  cough, 
how  Alice's  kitten  scratched  her  ringer  and  how 
Eddy  sprained  his  ankle  and  little  George  fell 
from  his  pony — till  you  can't  stand  it. 

Louis.  One  of  those  modern  Americans  has 
said  that  home  is  the  place  where  they  have  to 
take  you  in  when  you  have  to  go  there.  Good 
women  should  be  kept  there — to  take  you  in 
when  you  have  to  go  there.  And  I  add,  a  good 
woman's  place  is  the  home.  She  ought  to  be 
kept  there. 


IN    HEAVEN 


I  don't  care — I'm  lonesome  for  Cal- 
purnia.  [Begins  to  weep.] 

FREDERICK  [who  has  taken  up  the  telescope  ca*t 
down  by  Caesar  and  the  ear-trumpet  discarded  by 
George].  Pah  and  bah!  It  is  disgusting  down 
there  on  the  Earth.  They  do  nothing  but  run 
about  and  have  little  revolutions — they  make  me 
sick!  I  like  real  war  that  ends  in  conquest  and  the 
building  up  of  your  kingdom.  What  they  need 
now  in  Europe  is  a  full  house  of  proud  and  haughty 
kings — then  they  wouldn't  have  time  for  all  their 
silly  little  revolutions  and  their  vaunted  discon 
tent.  They  make  me  sick!  [Throws  down  the 
telescope  and  the  ear-trumpet.  Yawns.]  I  wish  I 
could  have  a  merry  little  game  of  pinochle  with 
some  clever-tongued  female. 

CESAR  [weeping  quietly].    I  want  Calpurnia. 

GEORGE  [peering  down  in  the  direction  of  the 
red  lights].  This  atmosphere  up  here  is  too  thin 
for  my  blood.  Down  there  they  have  a  cozy  fire 
and — yes,  there  are  plenty  of  queens,  not  to 
mention  duchesses.  I  do  love  a  nice  fat  little 
duchess. 

Louis.  Gentlemen,  Heaven  is  no  place  for 
kings,  let  us  forth  upon  the  trail — the  long  trail, 
the  broad  trail,  the  winding  trail,  the  trail  of 
many  turnings. 

CESAR  [wailing  audibly].  I  want  Calpurnia. 
Do  you  suppose  we  would  find  her  there? 

Louis.     Undoubtedly. 

GEORGE.  If  I  could  find  a  fine,  plump  girl 
down  there  I'd  be  perfectly  willing  and  more 
than  willing  to  go.  I  could  make  her  a  duchess. 

157 


THIRD   BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

FREDERICK.  I'm  willing  to  hit  the  trail  down 
to  the  merry  glow.  This  place  is  deadly  dull. 
I  want  to  go  where  there  are  ladies.  A  good, 
gay  frau!  Ja  —  I  like  a  jolly  frau,  a  house-frau 
who  knows  how  to  cook! 

I  feel  better  at  the  very  thought  of 


going! 

Louis  [faking  Ccesar  by  the  arm].  Come,  M. 
Caesar,  come,  gentlemen  all.  Heaven  is  not  the 
place  for  us.  The  place  for  us,  for  all  the  great 
royal  hearts  of  all  time,  is  that  rose-coloured  spot 
where  there  are  ladies.  Come,  my  friends! 

Cherchez  lafemme! 
• 
[Ceesar,  in  a  broken,  reedy  voice,  starts  the  song, 

"For  It's  Always  Fair  Weather  When  Good 
Fellows  Get  Together"  and  they  all  sing  it 
loudly  as,  arm  in  arm,  they  start  off  toward 
the  rosy  glow.} 

[CURTAIN.] 


158 


WHEN  TWO'S  NOT  COMPANY. 

PERSONS  AS  THEY  APPEAR: 

A  YOUNG  MAN. 
ANOTHER  YOUNG  MAN. 

TIME:  TODAY. 
SCENE:  THE  LIBRARY  IN  THE  HOME  OF  THE  GIRL. 

[The  room  is  large  and  comfortable  and  well 
furnished,  expressive  of  the  easy  wealth  of  a 
Middle-West  city.  There  is  a  big  davenport 
furnished  with  an  ample  number  of  pillows  and 
a  big  table  similarly  furnished  with  books,  big 
chairs  furnished  with  deep  seats,  etc.,  every  indi 
cation  that  the  pater  familias  made  plows  suc 
cessfully  for  years  even  before  the  war.  At  the 
back  of  the  room  large  curtained  windows  open 
out  upon  a  lawn  which  stretches  to  the  street. 
To  the  right  a  curtained  doorway  leads  into  a 
hall  which  is  heard  to  contain  a  hall-clock  pos 
sessing  Westminster  chimes.  A  young  man 
enters,  talking  to  an  invisible  maid  in  the  hall.] 

YOUNG  MAN.  That's  all  right.  Maybe  she 
isn't  at  home  to  everybody,  but  she  will  be  at 
home  to  me.  There  now,  don't  worry.  You've 
absolved  yourself — told  me  she  isn't  at  home  and 
I'm  coming  in  anyhow,  taking  all  the  responsi 
bility  on  myself.  See?  You  should  worry.  The 

159 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

fact  is  I've  got  a  date  with  her  at  five,  so 
she'll  be  home  soon.  I  may  be  a  few  minutes 
early — watch  a  little  fast.  [Walks  back  to  the 
door,  taking  off  his  overcoat  and  handing  it  and  his 
hat  to  the  invisible  maid  in  the  ha//,  who  gives  him 
the  evening  newspaper.  He  comes  back  into  the 
room  with  the  paper  in  his  hand,  talking  the  while.] 
Yes,  thank  you,  I'll  take  in  the  paper.  I'll  take  it 
in.  Now,  listen,  if  Miss  Elaine  comes  in  without 
my  seeing  her,  you  just  tell  her  I'm  here.  I'll 
make  myself  at  home  till  she  comes.  [He  walks 
back  into  the  room  with  the  complacent  air  of  one 
who  feels  himself  perfectly  at  home  and  moves  about 
a  little,  placing  the  newspaper  on  the  table,  before 
selecting  a  chair  in  which  to  sit.  Finally  he  sits 
down  in  a  chair  facing  the  hall  and  expectantly 
watches  the  door.  Being  somewhat  nervous,  he  re 
mains  sitting  only  a  few  moments,  gets  up  and 
stalks  about,  puts  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
takes  them  out  again,  examines  the  pictures,  the 
books,  goes  and  looks  out  of  the  window,  comes 
back  and  sits  down  again  in  a  different  chair,  gets 
up  and  looks  out  of  the  window  again,  comes  back 
and  picks  up  a  magazine,  throws  it  down  and  goes 
to  the  window  again,  returns  and  examines  a 
Cloissonne  jar,  drops  it,  ejaculates  "Oh,  Lord!" 
picks  it  up,  finding  it  unbroken,  replaces  it,  throws 
himself  into  another  chair,  occupying  altogether 
four  centuries  or  minutes  in  his  fidgeting,  and 
finally  is  standing  at  the  window,  when  he  sud 
denly  exclaims  "Oh,  Damn!",  hurries  to  the  table, 
seizes  a  volume,  drops  into  a  chair,  and  presents 
the  appearance  of  one  who  is  consumed  in  the  read- 

160 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

ing  of  a  most  exciting  book.  In  the  meantime  the 
electric  bell  of  the  front  door  has  been  heard  to  ring, 
and  in  a  Jew  moments  another  young  man  appears 
in  the  doorway,  talking  as  before  to  the  invisible 
maid  in  the  hall.] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  I  don't  mind  wait 
ing.  I'll  just  sit  here  till  she  comes.  It  won't  be 
long  now,  I  imagine.  Don't  tell  anyone  I'm  here. 
I'll  just  put  in  the  time.  Oh,  if  I  don't  happen  to 
see  Miss  Elaine  when  she  comes  in,  will  you 
please  tell  her  I'm  here  waiting  for  her.  [He 
turns  about  and,  coming  in,  sees  the  Young  Man. 
The  look  between  them  is  as  cordial  as  that  of  two 
young  dogs  who  have  just  smelled  the  same  bone.} 

YOUNG  MAN  [in  the  antithesis  of  a  Christian 
greeting.  Hello. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Oh,  you  here? 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  guess  so.  Looks  like  it.  Why 
not? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Well,  why  should  you  be  ? 

YOUNG  MAN.     That's  my  business. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Per 
haps  not  altogether. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  think  it  is.  I'll  tell  the  world 
so.  By  the  way,  you're  here. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     So  it  seems. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Maybe  /  wonder  why. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  I  might  quote  you, 
and  say  it's  my  business. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  indeed.  Have  it  your  own 
way. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  think  I  shall.  [He 
selects  a  chair  near  the  door  and  sits  down.  The 

11  161 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

Young  Man  ardently  peruses  his  book.  After 
some  scintillating  moments  of  silence  in  which  un 
seen  sparks  fly,  the  Other  Young  Man  coughs. 
Silence  again.  He  coughs  again.] 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  seem  to  have  it  bad.  I 
hope  it  isn't  tuberculosis. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  No,  it's  to-be-local- 
ass's  victim. 

YOUNG  MAN.     What? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Nothing.  Don't  let  me 
interrupt  your  reading. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  you  don't  interrupt  any 
thing. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Thanks.  You  seem  to  be 
much  absorbed.  Is  it  a  new  book? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Yes.  [Holding  it  up  and  looking 
at  the  fresh  leather  binding.}  Yes,  just  out. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [coming  over  and  standing 
near  the  Young  Man  as  if  to  look  over  his  shoulder ', 
an  action  which  the  Young  Man  evidently  resents, 
as  we  always  do.]  What  is  it? 

YOUNG  MAN  [reading  the  title  slowly  from  the 
back  of  the  book].  Hesperides  [pronouncing  it 
Hesper-ides]y  by  a  guy  named  Robert  Herrick. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Oh,  poetry. 

YOUNG  MAN  [frowning  darkly].    Yes,  of  course. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  didn't  know  you  were 
a  lover  of  poetry. 

YOUNG  MAN  [emphatically].  I  am.  There  are 
a  lot  of  things  you  don't  know  about  me. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  suppose  you  read  all 
the  new  things.  Herrick  and  Suckling  and 

162 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

Crashaw,  and  all  the  modern  free-verse  profiteers. 
[Standing  by  the  table.} 

YOUNG  MAN.     Yes,  I  do. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [walking  away  a  few  steps}. 
Funny — 

YOUNG  MAN.     Not  funny  at  all. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Yes,  it  is  funny.  [Turn 
ing  about.}  Psychologically  considered,  it  is  quite 
remarkable.  When  we  were  in  school  your  one 
preoccupation  was  baseball.  You  couldn't  be 
hired  to  read  anything  but  the  sporting  page  of 
the  newspaper.  Now  it  seems  to  be  only  a  step 
from  Babe  Ruth  to  Amy  Lowell.  [The  Young 
Man  pretends  to  be  completely  absorbed  in  his 
book.  The  Other  Young  Man  takes  out  his  cigarette- 
case^  lights  a  cigarette^  and  sits  smoking  and  watch 
ing  his  companion  and  smiling  contemplatively '.] 
I  remember  you  couldn't  be  made  to  read  "The 
Children's  Hour"  or  "Little  Orphant  Annie"  or 
"Paul  Revere's  Ride,"  or  anything.  You  wouldn't 
even  take  an  interest  in  "The  Boyhood  of  Theo 
dore  Roosevelt."  Your  mother  used  to  bribe  me 
with  movie  tickets  to  help  you  with  your  lessons. 
[Puffing  large  rings  of  smoke.}  Your  development 
into  an  impassioned  lover  of  poetry  is  almost 
beyond  belief,  but  it  is  evidently  true.  Proof 
that  would  satisfy  any  court. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Gosh!  I  never  could  understand 
why  you  lawyers  think  you  are  so  witty.  No  one 
else  thinks  so. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  How  direct  you  are! 
You  would  make  a  splendid  witness. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Witness?  [Turning  in  his  chair 

163 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

and  glancing  at  the  Other  Young  Man.]  Heaven 
preserve  me  from  ever  falling  into  a  lawyer's 
clutches.  You  think  because  you  went  to  college 
and  studied  law  and  I  went  straight  into  business 
that  you've  hogged  all  the  brains  in  the  world. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Not  at  all.  I  went  to 
college  and  pursued  the  pragmatic  illusion  of 
education  and  you  stayed  at  home  and  pursued 
the  arts.  You  are  my  superior.  [Bowing  elab 
orately^ 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  think  it's  an  easy  job  learn 
ing  how  steel  accessories  are  made  and  selling 
them. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Far  from  it.  You  are 
the  true  artist.  [Leaning  back  in  his  chair  and 
speaking  with  elocutionary  effects  and  gesturing.} 
The  business  man  is.  He  composes  the  music  of 
the  mills,  the  lyrics  of  the  slums.  He  paints  the 
genre  pictures  of  the  factory.  He  carves  the 
statue  of  success  out  of  steel.  [The  Westminster 
chimes  in  the  hall  strike  five  oy  clock.  Both  young 
men  take  notice.  The  Young  Man  jumps  to  his 
feet  and  throws  the  book  on  the  table.  The  Other 
Young  Man  puts  out  his  cigarette.  The  Young 
Man  thrusts  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  walks 
about  rapidly.  Each  is  intent  upon  his  own  ap 
pearance  and  the  coming  event  and  only  surrep 
titiously  conscious  of  the  other.  Finally  after  a  few 
moments  of  anxious  waiting  the  Young  Man  blurts 
out  his  statement.] 

YOUNG  MAN.  Jove!  I  may  as  well  tell  you. 
I  have  a  date  here  at  five  o'clock  this  after 
noon. 

164 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [immovably].  You  surprise 
me. 

YOUNG  MAN.  By  Jove,  you  mean  you're  going 
to  stay? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Certainly.     Why  not? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  you  have  the  nerve.  [He 
nervously  walks  about,  glancing  angrily  and  hur 
riedly  at  and  away  from  the  Other  Young  Man 
several  times.  At  last  he  throws  himself  into  a 
chair  again.] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [faking  out  his  cigarette- 
case  again].  Have  a  cigarette? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Thanks.  I  have  my  own.  [The 
Other  Young  Man  carefully  lights  a  cigarette. 
Ihe  Young  Man,  after  a  little  nervous  and  angry 
brooding,  also  takes  out  his  cigarette-case  and  lights 
a  cigarette.  More  unseen  sparks  fly  as  they  glance 
at  and  away  from  each  other :] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  If  you've  entirely  finished 
your  first  book  you  might  read  another  volume 
of  poetry  while  you  wait.  It  will  while  away  the 
time  for  you.  [Reaching  over  the  table.]  Here's 
one  called  "Paradise  Lost."  Good,  thick  book — 
ought  to  last  you  several  minutes.  Also,  inter 
esting  title.  Also,  most  apropos  title  for  you. 
[The  Young  Man  gives  him  a  furious  glance.] 
Most  apropos. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I  reckon  you  think  your  kidding 
is  the  funniest  thing  in  the  world,  but,  believe 
me,  it's  dumb. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Sorry  you  don't  appre 
ciate  my  efforts  at  conversation. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Oh,  conversation  be  damned! 

165 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

[Getting  up.]  I  don't  like  to  be  rude  or  anything, 
but  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  when  a  man  has  the 
consummate  nerve  you  have  there  is  only  one 
thing  to  be  done. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Interesting  analysis.  Go 
on. 

YOUNG  MAN  [walking  over  in  front  of  the  Other 
Young  Man  and  turning  on  him  furiously].  And 
that  is,  to  tell  the  truth. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  have  ever  been  a  seeker 
after  truth.  Proceed. 

YOUNG  MAN.  I've  told  you  that  I  have  a 
date  with  Elaine  at  five  o'clock.  The  only  de 
cent  thing  for  you  to  do  under  the  circumstances 
[crossing  back  to  the  other  side  again]  is  to  make 
yourself  scarce. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  That  may  seem  so  from 
your  point  of  view,  but  it  is  unfortunately — for 
you — impossible.  Sorry  not  to  be  able  to  ac 
commodate  you. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Look  here.  You  know  this  is 
carrying  things  almost  too  far.  By  gum,  this  is 
my  dance,  you  can't  cut  in.  See?  Your  pres 
ence  isn't  wanted. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     My  dear  boy — 

YOUNG  MAN.    Don't  you  "dear  boy"  me! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  If  you  don't  enjoy  my 
presence,  it  is  fairly  evident  what  you  can  do. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  have  the  nerve  of  a  turtle, 
the  cheek  of  a  hippopotamus. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Picturesque  figures. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  it's  no  joke.  I  have  a  date 
with  Elaine  here  this  minute. 

166 


WHEN   TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  So  you've  intimated 
twice  before.  But  one  may  assume  that  she 
hasn't  one  with  you. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Do  you  mean  you  think  I'm 
lying? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  perhaps  you  are 
exaggerating  a  little. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  thunder,  you  know  I  never 
do.  I'm  not  up  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Not  as  a  rule,  but  I 
have  reason  to  believe  you  are  doing  it  right  now. 

YOUNG  MAN.     What  do  you  mean? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  You  say  you  have  an 
engagement  here  at  five  o'clock  with  Elaine,  but 
that  is  absolutely  impossible,  because  I  have  an 
engagement  at  five  o'clock  here  with  Elaine. 

YOUNG  MAN.    The  deuce  you  have! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  It  may  be  unwelcome 
news  to  you,  but  it  is  true. 

YOUNG  MAN.    Oh,  go  to  the  dickens! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  My  dear  fellow,  that  is 
the  habitat  for  you.  I  stay  right  here.  I  keep 
my  engagement. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  can't  fool  me  with  any 
cock-and-bull  story  like  that. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  It  wouldn't  interest  me 
to  try  to  fool  you.  I'm  telling  the  truth.  I  made 
an  engagement  with  Elaine  to  be  here  at  five 
this  afternoon. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You're  talking  rot.  I  made  an 
engagement  with  Elaine  to  see  her  at  five  this 
afternoon.  [He  crosses  over  to  the  Other  Young 
Man.} 

167 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Sorry  to  dispute  your 
word. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Do  you  think  I'm  lying? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  the  evidence  is 
against  you. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  all  right,  you'll  see  when 
she  comes.  I'm  it! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  When  she  comes  you 
will  have  the  opportunity  to  observe  that  I  am 
the  man! 

YOUNG  MAN.  Why,  man,  I  called  her  up  over 
the  'phone  this  morning  at  ten- thirty  and  made 
the  engagement  for  this  afternoon  at  five. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  telephoned  yesterday 
afternoon  at  three-thirty  and  made  the  engage 
ment  for  this  afternoon  at  five. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  if  you  did,  which  I  doubt, 
she  forgot  all  about  it  by  this  morning.  [He 
crosses  back  to  his  chair  by  the  table.] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  If  she  made  an  engage 
ment  with  you  this  morning,  which  I  don't  be 
lieve,  she  was  just  playing  a  little  game  with 
you. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  thunder!  She  may  have 
played  her  little  games  with  other  men,  but  she 
never  has  with  me.  When  she  meets  a  real  man 
she's  perfectly  straight,  the  most  honorable  little 
girl  in  the  whole  world. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  agree  with  you  in  sub 
stance,  but  you  have  made  a  mistake  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  man.  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe  in  her. 

YOUNG  MAN.     I'm  willing  to  trust  her. 
1 68 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  The  world  is  full  of  will 
ing  fools. 

YOUNG  MAN.    It's  overcrowded  with  able  liars. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Am  I  to  infer  that  in 
cludes  me? 

YOUNG  MAN.     You  know  best  yourself. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  All  right,  young  man,  we 
shall  see. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  bet  we'll  see — when  she 
comes. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Yes,  when  she  comes. 

[There  is  a  noise  of  a  door  slamming  and  they 
both  jump  to  their  feet  and  stand  facing  the 
hall.  No  one  comes,  and,  after  a  few  moments 
of  intense  waiting,  the  Young  Man  sits  down 
again.  They  have  their  backs  to  each  other 
and  are  most  obviously  oblivious  of  each  other. 
The  Young  Man  becomes  restless  and  screws 
about  in  his  chair.  The  Other  Young  Man 
watches  him  with  lips  compressed  in  a  sar 
donic  and  legal  grin.} 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Why  don't  you  smoke 
another  one  of  your  own  cigarettes?  [Takes  out 
his  case  and  lights  another  cigarette  for  himself.] 

YOUNG  MAN.     Aw — go — to — {grunting}. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [after  a  few  complacent 
pujfs].  Well,  you  might  read  another  book  of 
poetry  to  while  away  the  time. 

YOUNG  MAN  [turning  on  him  viciously].  I 
reckon  I  might.  By  the  way,  you  need  some 
occupation  yourself  to  put  in  the  time.  There 

169 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

are  some  clubs  out  in  the  hall.  Why  don't  you 
play  a  little  parlor  golf? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [a  little  nettled\.  Thanks. 
I'm  doing  very  well.  [He  sits  down.] 

YOUNG  MAN.  So  I've  heard.  Didn't  know 
till  the  other  day  that  you'd  taken  up  the  game, 
but  it's  never  too  late  to  learn.  The  coach  at 
the  club  tells  me  you're  a  braw  man  at  swiping 
up  the  earth — says  he'd  back  you  against  a  Ford 
tractor  at  swiping  up  the  clods.  Why  don't  you 
hire  yourself  out  to  a  farmer  in  the  ploughing 
season?  But  of  course  that's  not  your  game. 
Every  sport  has  two  birds — to  the  politician — 
the  bird  in  the  bush  may  be  your  little  golf  ball, 
but  the  bird  in  the  hand  is  the  unfortunate  man 
you  play  with — a  prospective  client,  eh?  You 
lose  the  game,  but  gain  your  own  client?  Oh, 
boy  [getting  up  and  walking  about\^  but  you're  the 
wonderful  little  sportsman!  Didn't  know  you 
liked  the  game  so  well  yourself,  did  you? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.    Oh,  I  like  it  well  enough. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Do  you  now?  Well,  well.  I 
wonder  when  you  turned  into  such  a  sport?  As 
I  remember,  you'd  never  play  games  when  we 
were  kids.  Wouldn't  play  marbles,  because  sit 
ting  on  the  ground  got  your  pants  dirty.  [The 
Other  Young  Man  flushes  and  looks  annoyed.[ 
Wouldn't  box  or  wrestle.  If  a  boy  wanted  to 
fight  you,  you  bought  him  off  with  candy. 
Wouldn't  play  hockey  or  learn  to  skate.  But 
you're  a  lover  of  sports  now  all  right  ? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     Oh,  more  or  less. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Strange,  but  a  fact,  as  the  old 
170 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

lady  said  when  the  lightning  struck  her.  Yet  I 
remember  you  would  never  play  ball,  and  once 
when  the  fellows  made  you  and  shoved  you  into 
the  game  and  a  ball  happened  to  light  on  your 
nose,  it  bled  so  you  cried.  [He  sits  down.] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     I  bleed  so  easily. 

YOUNG  MAN.  And  you  bleed  other  people 
easily,  too,  don't  you?  But  in  those  days  you 
never  could  be  got  to  play  tennis  or  learn  to 
drive  a  car.  It's  so  different  now.  Now  you  just 
love  hand-ball,  don't  you? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [weakly].    Well,  why  not? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  I  don't  know — seems  odd. 
It  used  to  be  so  different.  But  now  I  understand 
you're  a  regular  lion  in  the  gym  and  go  off  on 
wild  hunting  trips — nothing  but  big  game  sat 
isfies  you!  And  drive  your  own  Rolles-Royce. 
Gee,  it's  fine  to  see  a  regular  he-man,  strong  and 
fit,  like  you.  A  regular  hefty.  Wonder  you 
don't  challenge  Dempsey.  If  you  do,  let  me  act 
as  your  sponger,  will  you? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [fussed  like  a  dignified 
rooster  when  he  is  teased].  All  you  know  about  it. 
Why  shouldn't  I  have  become  athletic,  for  all 
you  know? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  but  I  do  know,  that's  just 
it!  You've  turned  into  a  regular  athlete!  Boxer! 
More  on  the  Carpentier  order — ladies'  man  and 
all  that.  Come  on,  let's  have  a  little  round! 
[He  jumps  to  his  feet,  pulls  up  his  sleeves,  and 
begins  to  make  passes.]  Come  on!  I'll  give  you 
lief  to  punch  me  a  little  just  for  practice.  [He 
advances  in  bellicose  manner,  grinning  grimly. 

171 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

The  Other  Young  Man  looks  amazed  and frightened ', 
cringing  back  into  his  chair.]  Come,  stand  up, 
like  a  man,  the  real  fighter  you  are!  [He  gives 
the  Other  Young  Man  a  light  punch  in  the  ribs  and 
hovers  over  htm,  lowering.  The  Other  Young  Man 
crouches  and  coughs  and  chokes  from  the  punch. 
Just  then  the  front  door  bangs.  The  Young  Man 
jumps  back  and  stands  facing  the  door,  his  hands 
still  clenched.  The  Other  Young  Man  takes  out  his 
handkerchief,  continues  to  cough,  tries  to  pull  him 
self  together.  No  one  comes.} 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     You'd  better  sit  down. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You've  got  a  nice,  rich,  juicy, 
cigarette  cough,  haven't  you? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Don't — [coughing] — don't 
make  a  fool  of  yourself. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Or  pulp  out  of  you.  Maybe  I 
will  before  I'm  through.  [He  turns  and  walks  to 
the  window ',  comes  back,  lights  a  cigarette  and 
throws  himself  into  a  chair.  A  few  moments  of 
silence  follow,  with  occasional  spasmodic  coughs 
from  the  Other  Young  Man.] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Better — keep  your  wit- 
till  you  need  it  more.  That  time  may  come. 

YOUNG  MAN.  You  don't  say?  [He  sits  in 
silence  p.  little  while.  Finally  a  light  breaks  over 
his  face,  as  he  is  evidently  thinking  of  something 
which  delights  him  much,  and  he  breaks  into  a 
smile '.]  Say,  I've  got  to  tell  you.  There's — there's 
an  engagement. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  You  said  before  that 
you  had  a  date  with  her. 

172 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

YOUNG  MAN.  Yes,  I  know.  But — I  don't 
mean  that.  I — mean — we're  engaged. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [getting  back  some  of  his 
sang-Jroid\.  Your  more  elegant  way  of  saying 
again  that  you  have  a  date  with  her. 

YOUNG  MAN.  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  A  date's 
one  thing — this  is  quite  another.  I  mean — oh,  I 
mean  that  she's  engaged  to  be  married  to  me. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  You  scarcely  expect  me 
to  believe  that,  do  you? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  For  two  very  good  and 
sufficient  reasons.  First,  because  you  haven't 
hesitated  to  stretch  the  truth  about  having  an 
appointment  with  her  here  this  afternoon,  and 
second,  and  more  conclusively,  because  she  is 
engaged  to  be  married  to  me. 

YOUNG  MAN  [bursting  into  loud  and  long 
laughter}.  By  gum,  that's  the  funniest  thing  I 
ever  heard! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  don't  see  why  it's 
funny  that  a  girl  should  be  engaged  to  be  married 
to  me. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Oh,  yes — ha-ha — it  is! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [bristling}.  Why  shouldn't 
a  girl  be  engaged  to  me? 

YOUNG  MAN.  No  reason  at  all  why  a  girl 
shouldn't — any  old  gander  can  find  some  sort  of 
goose — but  Elaine  isn't  a  goose,  and  she  couldn't 
be  engaged  to  you,  because  she's  engaged  to  me. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [sarcastically].  Nobody 
seems  to  be  aware  of  it  but  you. 

173 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

YOUNG  MAN.  Of  course,  it  hasn't  been  an 
nounced  yet — it's  a  secret. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  So  well  kept  that  no 
body  knows  it  but  you — not  even  the  girl  herself. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  she  knows  it  all  right.  It 
would  be  conceited  for  me  to  boast  or  anything 
like  that,  but  she  is — I  mean  we  are  very  happy. 
We  have  been  for  the  past  month. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  If  she  ever  was  engaged 
to  you — which  I  doubt — she  isn't  now. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Why,  man,  a  month  ago  she 
promised  to  marry  me. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  In  the  meantime,  then, 
she  changed  her  mind.  Two  weeks  ago  she 
promised  to  be  my  wife. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  Hells-Bells,  she  did  nothing 
of  the  sort.  ^Jumping  to  his  feet '.] 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN     I  tell  you,  she  did. 

YOUNG  MAN.  W7ell,  then,  she  was  just  flirting 
with  you,  fooling  with  you.  Or  else — she's  so 
soft-hearted  she  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly — she  just 
pretended  to  give  in  to  let  you  down  easy,  couldn't 
stand  to  see  your  disappointment. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Don't  try  to  deceive 
yourself.  She  has  always  been  perfectly  sincere 
with  me. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Humph!  How  do  you  account 
for  it  that  she  didn't  break  off  her  engagement 
to  me,  then? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  How  do  I  know  she 
didn't? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Well — [laughs  angrily] — because 
I'm  still  here. 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Probably — she's  so  ten 
der-hearted — she  couldn't  bear  to  hurt  you  by 
telling  you  she  had  changed  her  mind. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  changed  her  mind  nothing! 
Why,  we've  been  planning.  We  didn't  tell  any 
body,  because  we  wanted  to  keep  it  a  secret. 
She's  so  romantic,  she  wanted  to  keep  it  a  sacred 
secret  just  between  ourselves.  Not  even  her 
family  know.  But  we  talked  about  the  future 
and  made  all  sorts  of  plans.  We  agree  about 
everything.  Her  tastes  and  mine  are  identical. 
We  both  love  the  country  and  hate  apartment 
houses.  We  want  to  live  as  near  the  country  as 
possible,  out  at  the  edge  of  town.  I'm  going  to 
build  a  cozy  little  bungalow  as  soon  as  possible 
— my  business  will  permit  it  now — and  we'll 
have  a  regular  home,  not  a  box  of  a  flat.  We'll 
have  a  garden.  She's  so  fond  of  flowers,  and  she'll 
work  with  the  flowers  and  I'll  'tend  the  vegetables. 
I  can  get  out  early  from  the  office  nearly  every 
day.  Fresh  vegetables — ripe  tomatoes  and  green 
corn!  Oh,  boy! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Sounds  delightfully  bu 
colic. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Maybe  we'll  keep  a  cow. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     I  would  suggest  a  goat. 

YOUNG  MAN.     But  that's  farther  off. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     I  guess  so. 

YOUNG  MAN.  We've  had  lots  of  fun  planning 
our  wedding  trip,  too.  I  want  to  drive  in  my  car 
and  stop  whenever  we  please  and  go  wherever 
the  spirit  moves  us.  She  agrees  absolutely,  but 
she  has  a  hankering  after  Europe,  too,  so  we  play 

'75 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

we're  going  there.  Italy,  if  we're  married  in  the 
fall,  England,  if  the  wedding  comes  off  in  the 
summer. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  That's  all  very  romantic. 
It's  very  amusing  and  rather  pathetic.  Humor 
and  pathos  are  never  far  apart.  Perhaps  that 
was  once  what  she  tho'ught  she'd  like,  but  she 
has  changed  her  mind.  She  and  I  have  talked 
about  life  and  how  we  can  economize  resources 
so  as  to  get  the  best  with  the  least  expenditure 
of  physical  and  mental  effort.  At  the  rate  of 
speed  people  are  living  now  and  the  heavy  tax 
on  one's  time  and  energies,  one  must  conserve  the 
life-force.  Elaine  and  I  are  going  to  live  in  an 
apartment,  where  so  much  is  provided  without 
having  to  think  about  it.  The  janitor  looks 
after  the  furnace — I  never  could  keep  a  furnace 
going — and  the  plumbing  and  papering  and  every 
thing  they  do  for  you. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Sometimes  they  do,  sometimes 
they  do  you. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  We  intend  to  be  in  a 
building  that  has  a  cafe,  so  that  if  we  are  without 
a  maid  Elaine  will  not  have  to  go  into  the  kitchen. 
And  we  will  not  keep  an  automobile.  It  is 
cheaper  and  more  satisfactory  to  hire  one  when 
you  need  it.  And,  besides,  so  many  of  our  friends 
have  cars. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Ha-ha!  That's  economy  for 
you!  I  suppose  you  think  you  will  be  having  me 
take  you  out  places? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  don't  see  why  not — 
when  you  have  got  over  your  disappointment. 

176 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

YOUNG  MAN.  Disappointment?  Oh,  Hells- 
Bells!  You  don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  be 
lieve  all  this  stuff  you've  been  saying? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  It  doesn't  really  matter 
to  me  whether  you  believe  it  or  not. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Of  all  the  consummate  lying  I 
never  heard  the  beat! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  What  do  you  suppose  I 
think  of  all  you've  been  saying?  Well,  I  would 
hate  to  tell  you,  but  I  don't  think  your  story 
would  get  by  any  jury. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  you  and  your  juries!  I  bet 
you  never  had  a  case.  My  patience  is  just  about 
worn  out. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     You've  drugged  mine. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Are  you  going  to  stay  till  she 
comes  ? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Certainly.  It  won't  be 
long  now. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  so  am  I.  [He  gets  up  and 
walks  to  and  fro.  The  Other  Young  Man  sits 
watching  him  for  a  few  moments,  then  goes  over  to 
the  table  and  picks  up  the  evening  newspaper.  He 
turns  over  the  sheets  languidly  and  with  no  interest. 
There  is  heard  nothing  but  the  rustle  of  the  paper 
and  the  footsteps  of  the  Young  Man  as  he  walks 
about.  After  a  little  time  the  Young  Man  is  stand 
ing  looking  out  of  the  window  when  the  Other  Young 
Man  starts  >  sits  bolt  upright  and  is  absorbed  in  the 
paper  which  he  holds  with  trembling  hands.  The 
Young  Man  turns  about  and  looks  at  the  othery  be 
coming  interested  in  his  very  evident  excitement.] 

177 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

YOUNG  MAN  [coming  closer].  What's  the  mat 
ter  with  you? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [with  a  start,  looking  at  the 
other}.  I — oh,  I  think  I'll  go. 

YOUNG  MAN.  What  made  you  change  your 
mind  so  suddenly? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.    Oh,  nothing. 

YOUNG  MAN.  Yes,  there  was.  You  read 
something  in  the  paper  that  got  you.  What 
was  it? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  nothing.  Nothing 
at  all. 

YOUNG  MAN.     Yes,  there  was. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.    No,  not  at  all.    I  must  go. 

YOUNG  MAN.  No,  you  don't.  You  don't  stir 
till  you  tell  me  what  it  was. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Well,  if  you  must  have 
it,  it's  this.  [Reads  from  the  paper.]  "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robert  Thomas  Gallagher  announce  the 
engagement  of  their  daughter,  Elaine,  to  Mr. 
Henry  Irving  Robertson.  The  wedding  will  take 
place  in  June.  This  afternoon  Miss  Elaine  is 
telling  the  happy  news  to  a  few  of  her  most  in 
timate  friends  at  a  tea  given  her  by — ' 

YOUNG  MAN  [interrupting].  My  word!  You're 
making  this  up! 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     I  wish  I  were. 

YOUNG  MAN.    I  don't  believe  it. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  See  for  yourself.  [Hands 
him  the  paper,  which  he  seizes  with  frantic  hands 
and  reads.} 

YOUNG  MAN.  Good  God!  There  must  be 
some  mistake. 

178 


WHEN    TWO'S    NOT    COMPANY 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  There  couldn't  be.  A 
thing  like  this  is  authentic. 

YOUNG  MAN.     But  newspapers  lie  so. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Not  about  this  sort  of 
thing.  There's  nothing  to  be  gained. 

YOUNG  MAN.     You  think  it's  true,  then? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  wish  I  could  think 
otherwise. 

YOUNG  MAN.  So  that's  where  she  is — at  a  tea 
announcing  her  engagement  to  Harry  instead  of 
keeping  her  engagement  here  with  me. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [grimly].  Instead  of  keep 
ing  her  engagement  here  with  me. 

YOUNG  MAN  [looking  at  his  companion  in  misery 
suddenly  and  searchingly\.  Dick,  honest  to  God, 
were  you  on  the  level? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I  swear  I  was.  What 
about  you? 

YOUNG  MAN.  Oh,  I'm  too  much  of  a  fool  to 
make  up  a  lie.  But  why,  why,  when  I  asked  her 
if  I  could  come  here  today,  did  she  say  "yes"? 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN  [with  a  twisted  smile]. 
Because  she  is  too  tender-hearted  to  say  "no." 
[He  gets  up.] 

YOUNG  MAN.  My — my  heart's  thumping  so 
it  feels  as  if  it  would  jump  out  of  my  chest. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  I — I'm  trembling  like  a 
leaf. 

YOUNG  MAN.    Jove,  but  I — I've  been  an  ass. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  We've  been  a  pair  of 
them.  Come  along.  [He  takes  the  arm  of  the 
Young  Man  and  they  start  slowly  to  go  out,  when 
the  Young  Man  pulls  back.] 

179 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

YOUNG  MAN.     Wait  a  minute. 

OTHER  YOUNG  MAN.     What  do  you  want? 

YOUNG  MAN  [going  back  to  the  table].  I  want  to 
see  the  name  of  that  guy  that  wrote  "Paradise 
Lost." 

[Westminster  chimes  ring  in  the  hall.] 
[CURTAIN.] 


1 80 


PETER  DONELLY. 

PERSONS: 

MRS.  ALLEN. 

CLARISSA  ALLEN,  her  daughter. 
ELIZABETH,  Clarissa  s  cousin. 
PETER  DONELLY. 

TIME:  THE  PRESENT. 

[The  action  takes  place  in  the  very  comfortable 
and  well-to-do  library  of  some  very  nice  people  of 
a  Middle-West  city.  There  is  evidence  of  past, 
present,  and  future  abundant  "means"  to  buy  all 
that  a  properly  constituted  family  needs.  There 
are  the  usual  deep  leather  chairs  and  couches 
suggestive  of  the  process  of  sleep  rather  than  of 
active  mental  effort.  The  heavy  walnut  book 
cases  of  forty  years  back  contain  smooth  rows  of 
sets  in  half-leather  binding — Scott,  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  George  Eliot;  Continental  culture  rep 
resented  by  Balzac;  all  the  standard  English 
poets  with  crushed  Levant  backs,  the  New  England 
group  and  a  little  blue  Poe;  from  these  there  is  a 
third  of  a  century  jump  to  a  large  sprinkling  of 
social  and  economic  subjects  in  dark  blue  and 
brown  cloth  and  a  "Leaves  of  Grass"  in  green. 
The  entire  room  rests  in  an  atmosphere  of  lux 
urious  sobriety.  There  is  a  convenient  telephone 
stand  and  by  it  a  comfortable  chair.  In  the 
chair  sits  a  lady  of  sixty  years  or  more  of  age, 
in  an  immaculate  black  gown.] 
181 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MRS.  ALLEN  (telephoning].  I  called  you  up, 
my  dear,  because  I  am  in  such  trouble!  Such 
trouble!  It  is  horrible!  I  am  nearly  crazy!  I 
feel  as  if  I  should  scream !  But  I  must  not  scream 
—I  must  not  let  the  servants  know.  I  must  be 
self-controlled  and  strong' — I  must  set  my  lips 
with  firm  determination.  I  realise  that  I  must 
resolve  myself  into  a  tower  of  strength,  but,  Oh, 
my  dear,  I  have  been  weeping  so!  That  is  why 
I  did  not  call  you  up  before  [sobs] — I  couldn't 
speak  for  sobs.  I  know  it  must  seem  cruel  to 
weigh  you  down  with  my  troubles,  but  I  must 
talk  to  someone  or  I  shall  go  raving  mad.  What? 
[Pause.]  Oh,  it  is  about  Clarissa,  of  course. 
What  other  interest  in  life  have  I  but  my  daughter? 
What  other  interest  can  a  mother  have  but  her 
child?  [Pause.]  Oh,  no,  there  hasn't  been  an 
accident  and  she  isn't  ill — heaven  knows,  it  might 
be  better  if  she  were,  for  then  at  least  she  could 
be  kept  at  home.  You  haven't  seen  the  after 
noon  paper?  The  home  edition?  The  home 
edition  which  goes  into  every  home  in  the  city 
so  that  everyone  will  know — every  one !  [Her  voice 
almost  breaking.  Pause.]  Oh,  no,  Clarissa  isn't 
here — I  couldn't  be  talking  to  you  this  way  if 
she  were.  She  has  gone  to  a  bridge  party.  You 
know  she  plays  a  wretched  game,  and  she  never 
by  any  possibility  goes  to  a  party  if  she  can 
avoid  it.  She  is  utterly  stupid  about  bridge,  and 
I  never  ask  her  even  to  make  a  fourth  hand  in 
our  own  little  games  if  I  can  get  anyone  else. 
But  she  seizes  this  most  inopportune  time  to  go 
to  a  bridge  party.  I  believe  she  did  it  purposely. 

182 


PETER    DONELLY 


I  don't  see  how  she  could — I  don't  see  how  she 
had  the  face  or  the  heart  to,  but  she  did,  she  just 
went  calmly  where  she  will  have  to  meet  all  her 
friends,  just  went  there  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened  or  were  about  to  happen,  and  left  me  to 
bear  all  the  disgrace  and  opprobrium  here  alone. 
I  don't  understand  Clarissa,  I  never  did  under 
stand  her.  I,  a  mother,  have  to  acknowledge 
that  I  don't  understand  my  own  child!  Clarissa 
is  headstrong — I  wouldn't  say  it  to  anyone  but 
you,  my  dear,  but  she  /j,  she  is  headstrong,  stub 
born,  arrogant,  obstinate,  she  has  an  invincible 
determination.  She  always  has  been  hard  to 
conquer.  As  a  baby  she  would  fight  her  bottle. 
And  then  she  would  go  to  college  instead  of  go 
ing  to  Europe  to  be  finished.  She  never  cared  for 
music  and  the  languages.  She  always  liked 
mannish  studies.  And  her  reading  is  so — ad 
vanced.  Immoral  persons  like  Walt  Whitman 
and  all  sorts  of  queer,  unknown  anarchists  who 
write  about  politics  and  philosophy.  I  was 
brought  up  on  the  classics,  and  when  I  want  di 
version  I  read  a  little  of  Margaret  Deland  or  Mrs. 
Humphrey  Ward.  And  she  has  always  chosen 
such  queer  people  for  friends,  Polish  Jews  and 
strange  creatures  who  are  interested  in  what  she 
calls  social  work.  She  calls  it  social  work  when 
she  really  means  charity.  Social!  In  my  day  a 
social  meant  a  pleasant  gathering  of  the  congre 
gation  for  an  ice-cream  or  strawberry  supper  in  the 
basement  of  the  church.  And  I  can't  see  how  the 
word  can  mean  anything  but  something  connected 
with  society,  the  people  one  knows  or  knows  about, 

183 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

whose  names  occur  in  the  social  columns  of  the 
daily  press.  But  she  applies  it  to  philanthropic 
activities,  and  chooses  as  her  friends  the  strangest 
people — not  merely  common,  but  of  the  very 
lowest  classes.  She  invites  them  to  her  home, 
and  I'm  sure  they  are  just  as  uncomfortable  as 
I  am.  I  have  positively  been  ashamed  to  have 
the  butler  see  them  eat  with  their  knives  and 
make  horrible  noises  over  their  soup.  What? 
[Pauses.]  I  haven't  told  you  yet?  I  thought  you 
had  looked  at  the  paper  while  I  was  talking  and 
had  read  it,  and  I  was  just  beginning  to  explain 
how  the  horrible  thing  came  about.  For  if  she 
hadn't  meddled  with  those  horrible  people  she 
never  in  this  world  would  have  met  him  and  it 
wouldn't  have  occurred.  What?  [Pauses.]  Why, 
it  is  announced  that  Clarissa  is  engaged  to  Peter 
Donelly.  [Pauses.]  You  are  relieved!  [Pauses.] 
Why,  my  dear,  it  couldn't  have  been  worse!  You 
don't  think  that  my  daughter! —  Oh,  my  dear, 
that  couldn't  have  happened!  But  think  of  my 
daughter  marrying  Peter  Donelly!  Why,  he  is 
a  councilman  and  the  owner  of  that  unspeakable 
Lakeside  Park!  That  is  how  she  became  ac 
quainted  with  him.  She  was  working  in  this  re 
form  business — philanthropy  is  what  it  really  is — 
and  went  to  call  on  councilmen  and  all  sorts  of 
low  politicians.  She  seemed  to  be  prepossessed  in 
his  favor  from  the  start.  And,  of  course,  he  sought 
every  chance  to  be  in  her  society.  It  isn't  often 
that  a  councilman  can  meet  a  lady.  It  never 
occurred  to  me  as  possible  that  she  would  think 
of  him  in  the  light  of  a  suitor.  Why,  my  dear, 

184 


PETER    DONELLY 


his  clothing  and  his  manners!  He  has  come  up 
from  the  gutter — the  very  gutter!  But — would 
you  believe  it? — she  seemed  pleased  with  his  at 
tentions.  She  never  has  had  a  lover  before — I 
suppose  that  is  the  reason.  Clarissa  has  never 
cared  for  young  men  and  young  men  are  not 
going  to  spend  their  time  courting  a  girl  who 
thinks  of  nothing  but  unhappy  scrubwomen  and 
slum  babies  instead  of  them.  Young  men  like 
a  little  attention — I  have  always  told  Clarissa  so. 
They  are  afraid  of  strong-minded  women — I  never 
wanted  Clarissa  to  go  to  college.  And  they  are 
repelled  by  a  masculine  woman.  I  have  told 
Clarissa  time  and  again  that  if  she  wants  to  vote 
she  oughtn't  to  say  so,  she  oughtn't  to  let  any 
one  know.  Clarissa  is  a  strong-minded  suffragist 
you  know.  Oh,  I  wish  her  father  had  lived,  for 
she  needs  a  strong  hand,  and  I  have  never  been 
able  to  manage  her.  With  her  social  work!  And 
her  picking  up  creatures  like  Peter  Donelly!  She 
must  have  had  it  put  in  the  paper  herself.  It 
says  that  Mrs.  Jerome  Allen  [reading  from  the 
newspaper]  announces  the  engagement  of  her 
daughter,  Clarissa,  to  Mr.  Peter  Donelly.  /  an 
nounce  it,  indeed!  I  Enounce  it!  What?  [Pauses.] 
Oh,  yes,  she  told  me  all  about  it.  I  have  wept 
and  pled  with  her.  I  have  told  her  it  would  kill 
me.  I  shall  never  live  through  it — with  my  del 
icate  health.  But  she  is  so  obstinate.  And  of 
course  I  never  dreamed  that  she  would  really 
do  it.  He  has  been  hanging  around  constantly  for 
a  month  back,  driving  her  out  in  his  big  car,  tak 
ing  her  to  dinner  and  to  the  theatre.  Clarissa 

185 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

has  never  had  anything  of  the  sort  before,  and  I 
suppose  it  has  just  taken  her  off  her  feet.  Oh, 
yes,  he  has  plenty  of  money,  all  stolen  from  the 
tax-payers,  doubtless,  or  made  in  other  shady 
ways.  Oh,  my  dear,  and  he  has  lavished  it  on 
Clarissa.  Such  flowers  as  he  has  sent  her  you  never 
saw!  Roses  or  orchids  every  day  and  bunches  of 
violets  so  large  that  no  decent  girl  could  wear 
them.  Our  house  has  looked  as  if  we  were  having 
a  continuous  ball.  Such  ill-bred  ostentation! 
And  the  dinners  he  orders  for  her  at  the  Levington 
Hotel!  He  always  invites  me — I  suppose  she 
makes  him,  for  he  never  would  have  the  good- 
breeding  to  do  it  himself.  I  went  once,  and  you 
would  have  thought  it  was  the  Princess  of  Wales 
he  was  entertaining.  He  sends  her  tickets  to  all 
sorts  of  things — of  course  most  of  them  she  doesn't 
care  for.  And  his  big  car — I  believe  he  has  two — 
is  at  her  disposal  all  the  time.  [Pauses.]  Why 
yes,  it  has  been  going  on  for  a  month  or  so,  I  told 
you.  [Pauses.]  Break  it  up  in  the  beginning? 
Why,  of  course,  my  dear,  I  tried  to,  but  what 
could  I  do  with  Clarissa?  She  is  so  obstinate,  so 
determined,  so  headstrong!  But  I  shall  oppose 
it,  oh,  I  shall  set  my  face  like  flint  against  it! 
And  I  want  you  and  all  my  friends  to  help  me. 
I  want  you  to  talk  to  her.  I  believe  she  went  to 
that  bridge  party  out  of  pure  bravado,  just  in 
wilful  determination  to  outface  society.  Oh,  my 
dear,  there  is  the  front  door,  someone  is  coming 
in.  It  may  be  Clarissa,  I  must  ring  off.  [She 
hastily  hangs  up  the  receiver,  unfolds  the  paper, 
and  appears  to  be  reading  it  when  Clarissa  enters 

186 


PETER    DONELLY 


the  room  with  her  cousin,  Elizabeth.  Clarissa  is  a 
small  person  of  thirty-five ',  rather  neutral  in  coloring 
and  general  appearance,  quiet  and  demure,  gentle 
and  unassuming,  with  soft,  sweet  eyes,  and  creating 
an  impression  of  anything  but  obstinacy  and  strong- 
mindedness.  She  seems  calm  and  unperturbed  in 
marked  contrast  to  the  nervousness  and  excitement 
of  her  mother  and  cousin^ 

CLARISSA.  Well,  Mother,  here  is  Elizabeth. 
She  has  invited  herself  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

ELIZABETH.  How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Julia?  I 
don't  know  that  I  can  stay  to  dinner,  but  I  wanted 
to  come — I  felt  that  I  must — 

CLARISSA.  Wonders  will  never  cease.  I  took  a 
prize,  Mother.  Maybe  your  efforts  haven't  been 
in  vain  after  all  and  I'll  turn  into  a  star  bridge 
player  yet.  All  your  arduous  coaching  ought  to 
bring  success.  Well,  lucky  at  cards,  unlucky  in 
love.  Elizabeth,  will  you  take  your  hat  off 
upstairs  or  down  here? 

ELIZABETH.  Oh,  I  don't  think  I'll  take  my 
hat  off.  I  didn't  really  invite  myself  to  dinner. 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  do  stay.  It  is  so  much  nicer 
to  have  four  at  table  than  three,  and  Mr.  Donelly 
is  going  to  be  here.  [She  launches  this  bombshell 
in  a  quiet,  matter-of-fact  way  as  if  Mr.  Donelly' s 
presence  at  her  mother  s  board  were  an  every-day 
affair.  The  others  start  and  stare  at  her,  their 
breath  taken  quite  away.] 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Clarissa!  You  haven't  invited 
that  man  this  evening? 

ELIZABETH.  Clarissa,  it  was  exactly  to  talk  to 
you  about  that  man  that  I  came  home  with  you. 

187 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

CLARISSA  [slowly  and  gently}.  I  thought  so.  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  introduce  the  subject. 

ELIZABETH  [somewhat dumbfounded].  Well,  what 
could  you  expect?  You  can't  suppose  people 
will  stand  idly  by  and  watch  you  commit  social 
suicide  without  making  some  protest — can  you? 
Aunt  Julia,  you  haven't  given  your  consent,  have 
you  ?  In  spite  of  the  announcement  in  the  paper, 
I  couldn't  believe  you  would. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  /  give  my  consent,  Elizabeth,  to 
such  a  misalliance,  you  know  I  never  would! 
I  only  hope  other  people  will  have  the  discrim 
ination  to  realise  that  I  haven't  and  that  I  never 
sent  the  announcement  to  the  paper.  Unfor 
tunately  everybody  will  read  it,  but  I  don't  want 
them  to  think  I  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  I 
hope  your  mother  and  father  will  realise  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Of  course  they  will  see  it 
in  the  paper — everybody  will  read  it.  [In  a 
tearful  voice.] 

ELIZABETH.  Everybody  has  read  it.  Someone 
who  had  seen  it  came  to  the  bridge  party  this 
afternoon  and  the  news  spread  like  wildfire.  In 
ten  minutes  everybody  knew  and  everybody  was 
talking — except  when  Clarissa  was  around,  and 
even  then  they  were  whispering  and  talking  in 
low  tones  behind  her  back  and  I  was  so  afraid 
she  would  hear.  [Clarissa  looks  at  her  in  mild 
inquiry  and  Elizabeth  glances  at  her.]  And  yet  I 
realised  she  would  have  to  know  what  people 
think  about  it  and  how  they  are  talking,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  then  and  there  that  I  would 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns  [looking  sternly  at  little 

188 


PETER    DONELLY 


Clarissa]  and  come  home  with  her  and  tell  her 
and  strive  with  her  to  persuade  her  to  give  up 
this  strangely  perverted  and  mad  infatuation. 

CLARISSA  [gently].     It  isn't  a  mad  infatuation. 

ELIZABETH.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  see  my 
own  cousin,  a  girl  of  my  own  set,  one  I  have 
known  since  babyhood,  played  dolls  with  and  gone 
to  school  with,  the  daughter  of  my  own  mother's 
brother,  a  girl  of  my  own  class,  step  down  and 
out  from  where  she  belongs  and  marry  a  creature 
of  another  world  completely. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  thank  you,  Elizabeth! 
Thank  you  for  coming  to  my  rescue.  Thank  you 
for  making  things  so  clear. 

ELIZABETH.    Aunt  Julia,  how  did  it  happen? 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  he  is  a  councilman,  you 
know,  and  she  met  him  slumming.  [Clarissa  looks 
rather  surprised  and  smiles.] 

ELIZABETH.  I  don't  exactly  see  how  she  could 
meet  a  councilman  slumming. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  it  was  about  garbage  or  the 
segregated  district  or  something  she  had  to  con 
sort  with  low  politicians  about.  I  think  he  hyp 
notized  her  at  the  start. 

ELIZABETH.  Hypnotized!  Nonsense!  Clar 
issa  isn't  a  person  to  be  hypnotized.  Our  family 
aren't  that  weakling  sort. 

CLARISSA  [always  gently].  Thank  you,  Eliza 
beth. 

ELIZABETH.  But  I  don't  see  how  it  started, 
how  she  could  have  anything  to  do  with  him. 
One  doesn't  consort  with  low  politicians. 

MRS.  ALLEN.     Well,  he  began  with  little  at- 
189 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

tentions,  sending  his  big  car  for  her  and  tickets 
to  places. 

ELIZABETH  [scornfully].  I  suppose  as  the  owner 
of  that  unspeakable  Lakeside  Park,  he  gets 
passes  to  everything.  Cheap  sort  of  attention. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Well,  he  hasn't  been  cheap 
exactly. 

CLARISSA.     Thank  you,  Mother. 

MRS.  ALLEN  [scow/ing].  Oh,  he  has  lavished 
his  money  in  the  grossest,  most  vulgar  ostenta 
tion.  Dinners  and  the  theatre,  flowers — orchids 
and  dozens  of  roses,  and  candy — he  never  sends 
less  than  a  ten-pound  box. 

ELIZABETH.  He  must  think  Clarissa  has  an 
appetite. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  He  only  does  it  to  show  off,  of 
course.  Clarissa  isn't  used  to  such  things.  She 
has  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  good 
taste  and  refinement,  as  you  know,  Elizabeth. 

CLARISSA  [weakly].  Would  you  like  me  to  go 
out  of  the  room  while  you  discuss  me?  If  it 
would  leave  you  freer  to  say  what  you  like — 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Discuss  you?  Oh,  my  dear 
child,  I  wouldn't  discuss  you  with  anybody.  I 
am  your  mother  and  a  proper  mother  doesn't 
discuss  her  daughter  even  with  members  of  the 
family — hardly  even  with  the  minister. 

ELIZABETH.  We  are  not  discussing  you,  Clar 
issa. 

CLARISSA.  It  rather  seemed  as  though  you 
were. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  we  were  not.  I  came  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  talking  to  you,  to  show  you 

190 


PETER    DONELLY 


what  an  awful  mistake  you  have  made  which 
you  don't  seem  to  see  and  to  induce  you  to  break 
off  before  it  is  too  late. 

CLARISSA  [sinking  into  a  chair].  How  can  you 
break  off  a  mistake?  Go  on. 

ELIZABETH.  I  don't  for  the  life  of  me  see  how 
you  could  do  this  thing.  A  girl  who,  as  your 
mother  says,  has  been  brought  up  in  an  atmos 
phere  of  good  taste  and  refinement.  Why,  you 
are  one  of  us,  Clarissa.  You  are,  or  were,  an 
aristocrat.  [Clarissa  gazes  at  her  in  mild  interest.] 

MRS.  ALLEN.  That  is  just  it.  Her  father  was 
a  member  of  the  Order  of  Cincinnatus  and  I  am 
a  Colonial  Dame.  In  our  families,  Elizabeth,  the 
men  all  went  to  Harvard  and  the  girls  to  Europe 
to  be  educated  and  then  interested  themselves 
in  church  work  and  charities.  To  think  of  my 
daughter  marrying  a  low  politician!  You  know, 
Elizabeth,  no  gentleman  goes  into  politics  now 
except  perhaps  a  college  president  becomes  gov 
ernor  to  purify  the  office. 

ELIZABETH.  If  she  marries  him — but  she  isn't 
going  to  [sitting  down  opposite  Clarissa],  she  will 
commit  social  suicide.  Why,  people  can't  en 
tertain  him,  he  would  be  like  a  bull  in  a  china 
shop.  Fancy  him  at  a  dinner  party! 

CLARISSA.     Well,  7  can  still  eat. 

ELIZABETH.  But  you  wouldn't  be  invited  alone. 
Husbands  and  wives  don't  go  about  separately  in 
society. 

CLARISSA.  Perhaps  it  would  add  to  the  gayety 
of  things  if  they  did.  I  have  often  thought  so. 
But  no,  society  harnesses  them  together  and  that 

191 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

is  why  they  get  to  hating  each  other  so,  always 
starting  out  together,  always  going  home  to 
gether. 

ELIZABETH.  Why,  Clarissa,  who  would  ever 
have  thought  that  you  had  such  radical  ideas! 
But  other  people  haven't — nice  people.  I  sup 
pose  you  got  all  that  going  to  college.  I  am  glad 
I  didn't  go.  And  with  such  a  husband  you  would 
be  ostracized.  Nobody  would  invite  you  to 
dinner. 

CLARISSA.  I  haven't  noticed  people  falling 
over  themselves  to  invite  me  to  dinner,  anyhow, 
Elizabeth.  I  am  not  exactly  what  you  would  call 
a  social  lion. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  But,  my  dear  child,  that  is  all 
your  own  fault.  You  have  never  cared  for 
society.  You  have  never  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
people  and  pursuits  of  your  own  class  and  have 
preferred  to  consort  with  outlandish  creatures 
instead. 

ELIZABETH.  You  have  always  been  so  queer, 
Clarissa,  and  that  is  why  you  haven't  always 
been  included  in  things  the  girls  were  getting  up. 
I  know  they  haven't  meant  to  leave  you  out,  but 
— well,  you  know  you're  quiet  or  else  you  like  to 
talk  about  deep  subjects  and  you  make  people 
feel  uncomfortable.  Men  don't  like  a  girl  who 
is  quiet  and  supposed  to  have  views.  They  don't 
know  what  she's  thinking  about.  They  just  like 
to  eat  and  dance  and  play  cards  and  golf  and 
motor.  They  like  to  do  things  and  you  just 
think. 

CLARISSA  [sighing].    I  didn't  know  I  did. 
192 


PETER    DONELLY 


ELIZABETH.  But  when  it  comes  to  a  matter 
of  your  marrying  outside  of  your  class,  they  will 
resent  it.  They  won't  stand  by  and  permit  it. 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  things  the  girls  said 
this  afternoon. 

CLARISSA  [scarcely  audible].     I  did  hear. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  then  you  know  how  out 
rageous  they  think  it  is.  Why,  if  you  must  get 
married — I  didn't  know  before  that  you  were  so 
crazy  to — [Clarissa  looks  at  her  in  wide-eyed  aston 
ishment.] — lay  your  trap  for  Bob  Andrews  or 
Clarence  Doolittle  or  anybody  in  preference  to 
that  hodcarrier.  These  men  are  wild  as  you 
make  'em  and  drink  like  fish,  but  at  least  they're 
gentlemen.  I  haven't  any  objection  to  a  self- 
made  man,  per  se,  if  they  gradually  work  out  of 
their  class  into  an  upper  stratum  of  society  like 
Professor  Rogers,  for  instance,  whose  father  kept 
a  little  corner  grocery,  but  he  went  to  night 
school  and  studied  and  finally  became  a  historian 
and  now  can  play  golf  with  the  best  of  them.  But 
this  man  of  yours  never  tried  to  get  out  of  his 
class.  He  has  never  had  a  golf  club  in  his  hand, 
he  has  never  contributed  to  the  symphony  con 
cert  orchestra  fund — I  know  that — he  never 
bought  an  opera  ticket  in  his  life. 

MRS.  ALLEN.     If  you  could  see  him! 

ELIZABETH.  I  suppose  he  looks  the  part — a 
common  Irish  politician. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  My  dear,  his  appearance  is  per 
fectly  impossible  and,  as  you  say,  he  will  never 
be  different,  he  isn't  the  sort  to  change,  and  his 
manners  are,  if  possible,  worse  than  his  clothing. 

13  193 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

He  tucks  his  napkin  in  his  shirt-front  at  dinner — 
he  even  tucks  it  between  his  collar  and  his  chin. 
He  sucks  his  soup  and  he  gurgles  in  his  coffee. 
He  talks  to  the  waiter  as  if  they  were  bosom 
friends.  His  voice  is  so  loud  and  awful  like  the 
bellowing  of  a  bull.  He  murders  the  King's 
English  and  uses  so  much  low  and  inordinate 
slang  that  it  is  quite  impossible  to  undertsand 
his  meaning. 

ELIZABETH.     If  he  has  any. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  He  shakes  hands  like  a  gorilla — 
I  have  seen  him,  though  I  have  never  offered  him 
my  hand — and  his  favorite  attitude  is  to  stand 
with  his  thumbs  stuck  in  the  arm-holes  of  his 
waistcoat.  And,  oh,  his  clothing!  My  dear,  he 
wears  huge  check  suits,  gaudy  waistcoats,  enor 
mous  rings,  and  a  flashy  diamond  pin,  red — bril 
liant  red  cravats,  yellow  gloves,  and  a  bright 
green  hat.  He — 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  don't  talk  so  loud,  please  don't! 
I  heard  the  maid  open  the  front  door  and  let 
someone  in. 

ELIZABETH.  Well,  nothing  could  be  so  loud  as 
what  we  are  talking  about. 

{The  subject  of  their  conversation  enters  in  all 
his  powerful  and  masculine  exuberance.  He 
is  dressed  as  they  have  described  him  and 
carries  the  bright  green  hat  in  his  hand.  He  is 
an  Irishman ,  big  and  strong  and  gay,  with  red 
cheeks,  a  happy  smile,  and  a  comfortable  air 
of  sureness  of  his  ground.  He  advances 
quickly  and  with  a  light,  firm  step  to  Clarissa 
194 


PETER    DONELLY 


and  fairly  beams  like  a  broad,  bright  sun  as 
he  takes  her  hand.] 

PETER.  I  guess  I'm  a  little  bit  early,  my  girl, 
but  I  had  an  extra  quarter  of  an  hour  and  I  just 
couldn't  stay  away. 

CLARISSA  [smiling  back  at  him  tenderly  and  with 
relief  as  to  one  who  finds  no  fault  with  her,  in  whose 
happy  depths  she  is  all  right,  a  perfect  thing].  I 
am  so  glad  you  came. 

PETER.  Are  you  now?  [With  a  loud  laugh. 
He  puts  his  green  hat  under  his  arm  and  takes  her 
two  hands  in  both  of  his  and  swings  and  plays  with 
them.  Then  with  a  quick  glance}  And  here  is  the 
mother,  too.  [He  turns  from  Clarissa  and  strides 
with  outstretched  hand  to  Mrs.  Allen.]  How-de-do, 
ma'am? 

MRS.  ALLEN  [coldly  glaring  at  him,  not  offering 
her  hand}.  I  am  quite  well. 

PETER  [a  little  crestfallen].  That's  good.  I'm 
glad  to  hear  it,  ma'am.  [He  looks  at  his  despised 
hand,  then  strokes  his  lips  thoughtfully  with  it. 
With  a  sidelong  glance  at  Clarissa  for  inspiration.] 
I  guess  I've  butted  into  a  family  party.  I  wouldn't 
want  to  be  interruptin'. 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  no,  Peter,  this  is  my  cousin, 
Miss  Worthington.  Elizabeth,  this  is  Mr.  Donelly. 

PETER  [advancing  again  with  a  quick  stride  and 
outstretched  hand].  Pleased  to  meet  ye,  ma'am. 
Any  relation  or  friend  of  Clarissa's  is  a  friend  of 
mine. 

ELIZABETH  [coldly,  curtly,  insolently,  without 
offering  her  hand}.  How-do-you-do. 

195 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

PETER  [looks  at  Elizabeth  steadily  in  surprise 
and  inquiry  for  a  moment,  then  a  queer  little  gleam 
of  a  smile  comes  into  his  eyes  as  he  withdraws  his 
hand  and  folds  his  arms]  I'm  fine,  ma'am.  I 
always  enjoy  elegant  health.  [After  an  icy  mo 
ment,  he  clears  his  throat.]  It's  fine  weather  we're 
having — bright  and  sunny,  though  you  might  say 
a  little  chilly  in  the  house.  [With  a  furtive,  broad 
wink  at  Clarissa.]  Maybe  it's  good  for  a  man  to 
get  hit  by  a  cold  draught  now  and  then,  keeps 
him  in  his  place  all  right,  makes  him  realise  he 
don't  own  the  earth  and  the  stars  and  everything 
in  between.  For  myself,  though,  I  never  did  care 
about  hot  air,  always  said  cold  was  healthier. 
[A  pause.  Peter  looks  round  at  the  ladies,  who 
stand  immovable,  Mrs.  Allen  and  Elizabeth  still 
cold  and  glaring,  Clarissa  becoming  more  nervous 
and  excited?[  Hum!  As  I  was  saying,  it's  bully 
weather  for  driving.  If  a  man  has  an  hour  or  so 
to  spare,  it's  grand  to  be  free  to  get  out  and  hit 
the  road  at  about  forty  miles  an  hour.  I  never 
go  faster — it  ain't  safe.  Forty  is  my  limit.  But 
driving  in  your  own  car  sure  is  the  way  to  travel. 
I  often  wish  I  could  make  my  trips  to  the  capital 
that  way — but  I  can't  spare  the  time.  The  roads 
are  good,  too.  The  roads  all  round  here  in  this 
neck  of  the  woods  are  first  rate  now.  And  the 
woods  are  all  dressed  up  in  their  fall  clothes — 
pretty  as  a  girl  fixed  up  for  a  dance.  I  guess  you 
ladies  like  a  spin  now  and  then,  most  ladies  do. 
We'll  have  to  go  for  one  some  fine  afternoon. 
Nothing  would  tickle  me  more  than  to  give  any 
of  Clarissa's  friends  a  good  time.  My  car  can 

196 


PETER    DONELLY 


take  us  four  and  three  or  four  others — the  more 
the  merrier — as  they  say — and  when  we  come 
back  we  can  have  a  nice  little  dinner  at  the  Lev- 
ington  and  then  take  in  a  show.  Some  fun,  eh? 
Most  ladies  can  stand  a  show,  too,  judging  by  the 
way  they  flock  to  a  Saturday  afternoon  matinee. 
I  guess  they  like  a  show  same  as  they  like  a  good 
spin  and  a  little  dinner.  A  nice,  hot  little  dinner 
introduced  with  a  cocktail — a  good  cold  Man 
hattan — served  where  you  know  the  waiter  and 
the  management.  [Seeing  Elizabeth  frown.]  Or, 
of  course,  we  can  omit  the  drinks  if  you  are  tee 
totalers.  Some  ladies  are,  and  I  know  when  they 
are  they're  awful  touchy  about  it.  I  wouldn't 
do  nothing  to  offend  your  feelings.  And  we'll 
omit  the  drinks  forevermore.  Though  I  will  say 
some  ladies  do  seem  to  enjoy  a  cocktail,  and 
from  my  observation  I  don't  think  female  suffrage 
is  responsible  for  prohibition.  Not  me.  Would 
you  believe  it?  Clarissa  has  made  me  believe 
women  ought  to  vote.  Though  I  wouldn't  have 
my  political  opinions  on  that  subject  get  round  in 
my  ward.  I'm  just  telling  it  in  the  family.  But 
we're  getting  off  the  subject.  Let's  us  plan  for 
our  little  party  for  the  show.  What  do  you  say? 
What's  the  matter  with  tomorrow  night? 

MRS.  ALLEN  [frigidly].  I  have  never  been  to  a 
circus  in  my  life.  I  always  supposed  circuses 
were  for  children  and  the  proletariat. 

CLARISSA.    He  means  the  theatre,  mother. 

PETER.  Haw,  haw!  I  call  everything  in  the 
stage  line  a  show.  I  thought  everybody  did.  But 
if  you  ain't  ever  attended  a  circus,  ma'am,  you've 

197 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

missed  half  your  life.  I  wish  I  might  have  the 
joy  of  escorting  you  to  the  next  one.  I  always 
take  a  bunch  of  kids  every  spring — youngsters 
from  the  fourth  ward — that's  my  old  lay-out. 
They  call  it  Donelly's  Treat,  and  they  just  do 
fight — cussin'  and  kickin' — which  one  shall  hold 
my  hand.  There's  pop-corn  and  peanuts  for 
them  and  the  elephants.  They  come  all  dressed 
up  in  their  best  Sunday  clothes,  faces  shining  with 
soap,  hair  slick.  Believe  me,  they  sure  do  have 
some  good  time.  It  would  do  your  blessed  old 
heart  good  to  see  'em,  ma'am,  and  I  think  you 
would  enjoy  headin'  the  procession. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  You  are  quite  mistaken,  Mr. 
Donelly,  I  should  not  enjoy  heading  a  procession. 

PETER.  Wouldn't  you?  Well,  maybe  not. 
Maybe  a  show — I  mean  a  play — is  more  in  your 
line.  I  know  Clarissa  takes  to  plays  like  a  duck 
to  water,  don't  you,  my  girl?  Like  daughter,  like 
mother,  w<zybe,  though  I  don't  really  guess  so. 
Why,  I  believe  Clarissa  could  stand  a  show,  I 
mean  a  play,  almost  every  night  in  the  week. 
And  I  figured  it  out  most  ladies  can.  The  funny 
thing  is  that  they  like  deep  subjects.  Now  a 
man,  he  goes  to  a  show  just  for  entertainment, 
same  as  he  goes  to  the  races,  only  not  so  exciting. 
Why,  I  bet  you  if  men  was  allowed  to  bet  on  how 
a  play  comes  out,  the  theatres  would  be  just 
packed.  It's  a  wonder  some  theatrical  guy  don't 
think  of  it  and  start  a  book — it  would  triple  his 
receipts  in  no  time,  even  if  he  did  it  on  the  square. 
But  of  course  ladies  don't  care  about  that — they 
ain't  sporty  and  don't  like  funny  plays.  In  fact, 

198 


PETER    DONELLY 


ladies  are  very  serious-minded  people.  No  offence 
to  the  ladies — I'm  sure — it's  only  the  difference 
between  'em  and  men  folks.  For  me,  I  get  as 
much  fun  outside  the  theatre  as  in.  I  think 
people  in  real  life  are  as  interesting  as  any  show 
— play,  I  mean.  In  fact,  I  get  my  fun  studying 
human  nature.  It's  the  most  interesting  job  in 
the  world  watching  how  folks  work — I  mean  the 
mechanism.  They  all  have  their  ambitions  and 
their  prejudices  and  if  you  study  'em  enough  you 
get  to  know  just  what  they're  going  to  do.  If 
you  touch  a  button  here,  it  sets  some  set  of  wheels 
going,  and  if  you  pull  a  wire  there,  it  sets  off 
something  else.  Believe  me,  it  sure  is  some  game 
— and  some  folks  call  it  politics.  [He  laughs 
heartily^  then,  seeing  the  others  unmoved,  he  gazes 
at  them  interrogatively  and  sobers  down.]  Excuse 
me,  ladies,  I  guess  it's  me  that's  monopolizing 
the  conversation. 

ELIZABETH.  Clarissa,  we  haven't  finished  our 
interview.  If  this — this  gentleman  will  permit 
me. 

PETER.  Why,  sure,  I  didn't  know  I  was  in 
terrupting. 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  Elizabeth,  won't  you — won't 
you  postpone  it  to  some  more  opportune  time? 

ELIZABETH.  It  can't  be  postponed.  It  must 
be  settled  now.  You  haven't  been  made  to  see. 
You  haven't  promised  anything. 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  I  know  you  are  doing  this  out 
of  the  goodness  of  your  heart,  Elizabeth,  I  know 
you  mean  it  for  a  kindness,  but  it  isn't  kind,  it  is 
quite,  quite  cruel. 

199 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

ELIZABETH.  Cruel?  Do  you  think  I  enjoy  it? 
Is  it  pleasant  to  have  to  explain  to  a  friend  that 
she  is  making  a  fool  of  herself?  To  try  to  keep 
her  from  making  a  horrible,  an  irreparable  mis 
take! 

CLARISSA.    Oh,  please  don't,  please  hush! 

ELIZABETH.  Clarissa,  come  away,  come  home 
with  me!  [Moving  towards  her.] 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  I  can't!  Don't  you  see?  Peter 
has  come  to  dinner. 

PETER.  Well,  I  wouldn't  want  to  butt  in  on 
any  unfinished  business.  I  can  eat  anywhere.  I 
ain't  particular. 

ELIZABETH  [taking  her  by  the  arm].  My  dear, 
you  come  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

CLARISSA  [pulling  away  from  her].  It  is  quite 
quite  impossible.  Won't  you  stay  to  dinner 
with  us? 

PETER.     This  is  a  funny  business. 

ELIZABETH  [starting  slightly  and  looking  at  him 
in  amazement].  Aunt  Julia,  I  don't  believe  he 
knows.  I  don't  believe  he  understands.  I  don't 
believe  he  comprehends  the  situation  in  the  least. 
Clarissa  evidently  hasn't  told  him. 

PETER.  I  guess  I  don't.  I  guess  if  there's  a 
situation  I'm  all  in  the  dark  there.  If  you've 
got  a  flash-light  you  might  turn  it  on,  ma'am. 

ELIZABETH.  And  you,  Aunt  Julia,  you  haven't 
yourself  made  the  situation  clear  to  him,  have 
you? 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  I  have  in  every  way  pos 
sible.  Maybe  not  just  in  so  many  words,  but  by 

200 


my  manner,  my  refusals,  my — oh,  what  can  a 
lady  do  in  her  own  house? 

ELIZABETH.  You  see,  Mr.  Donelly,  you  put 
Mrs.  Allen  at  a  disadvantage  by  coming  here. 

PETER.     You  mean  I  ain't  wanted? 

ELIZABETH.  That  is  putting  it  rather  crudely 
— but— 

PETER.     I  guess  I  am  crude. 

ELIZABETH.  Mrs.  Allen  never  invited  you 
here.  You  do  not  come  by  her  invitation.  You 
must  see  how  things  are. 

PETER.     I'm  beginning  to. 

ELIZABETH.  Clarissa  got  into  this  affair  with 
out  thought,  she  has  been  carried  away,  she 
hasn't  known  what  people  would  say,  how  they 
are  talking  now,  how  much  her  family  and  friends 
are  opposed  to  it. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Opposed?  I  have  opposed  it — I 
do  oppose  it  and  will  oppose  it. 

ELIZABETH.  You  see?  Her  mother  will  never 
give  her  consent  to  this  marriage. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Consent?  Oh,  never,  never! 
I  cannot  lose  Clarissa.  It  would  kill  me.  Mrs. 
Worthington  says  I  am  quite  right,  that  I  must 
set  my  face  with  grim  determination  like  flint 
against  it.  They  all  say  so.  My  friends  are  all 
supporting  me.  I  cannot  lose  Clarissa.  It  would 
kill  me! 

PETER.     But  you  wouldn't  be  losing  her. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  it  would  be  worse  than  los 
ing  her.  I  should  rather  see  my  daughter  in  her 
grave  than  see  her  married  to  you. 

201 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

PETER  [under  his  breath].     By  gum! 

ELIZABETH.  We  all  feel  that  way,  Aunt  Julia. 
We  are  all  with  you.  Father  and  Mother  haven't 
heard  of  it  yet,  but  I  know  what  they  will  do — 
they  will  set  their  feet  right  down  on  it.  For  the 
sake  of  the  family  they  will  back  you  right  up. 
All  the  aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins  will,  every 
body  will.  Your  friends  this  afternoon  were  all 
sympathetic.  They  all  said  you  would  have  to 
stop  it.  And  as  for  the  others — oh,  what  they 
said!  It  was  a  scandal. 

PETER  [aghast].  You  mean  people  are  talking 
about  Clarissa? 

ELIZABETH.  Of  course.  I  suppose  it  is  impos 
sible  for  a  man  like  you  to  realise  what  you  sub 
ject  a  girl  like  Clarissa  to. 

CLARISSA.     Oh,  Elizabeth,  don't! 

PETER.  She'd  best  tell  me,  Clarissa.  [To 
Elizabeth.]  Go  on. 

ELIZABETH.  No  one  dreamed  her  relations 
with  you  were  anything  but  business  and  philan 
thropic,  so  when  the  announcement  of  your  en 
gagement  comes  out,  they  say  ugly  things. 

PETER.     Ugly  things  about  her? 

ELIZABETH.  It's  only  natural.  They  talk  out 
rageously. 

PETER.  It  don't  seem  natural  to  me  for  ladies 
to  talk  outrageously. 

ELIZABETH.     Much  you  know  about  ladies. 

PETER.  Anyhow,  it  ain't  natural  for  anyone 
to  talk  scandal  about  a  lady  like  Clarissa — it's 
damned  blasphemy.  If  I  hear  any  of  it — well, 
they  best  come  to  me.  I'll  choke  their  mouths 

202 


PETER    DONELLY 


and  settle  their  hash.  I  won't  stand  for  nothing 
said  against  my  girl. 

ELIZABETH.  Oh,  a  lot  you  could  do.  You 
would  better  hold  your  tongue.  You  would  only 
make  matters  worse. 

PETER.     Me? 

ELIZABETH.  Don't  you  understand,  you  idiot, 
that  it  is  just  because  of  you  that  they  are  talk 
ing  about  her?  They  ask  why  a  girl  of  blue  blood, 
of  refinement,  education,  culture,  why  she  should 
marry  a  boor  like  you — and  they  give  nasty 
reasons. 

PETER  [angrily].  The  devil  they  do!  [With 
clenched  teeth  and  fists.]  I'd  like  to  hear  'em! 

ELIZABETH.  You!  You  would  better  keep 
away.  You  would  only  hurt  her  by  your  inter 
ference.  You  can  only  do  more  harm.  You've 
done  enough. 

PETER.  I  can't  do  nothing  to  protect  my 
girl? 

ELIZABETH.  Don't  you  realise,  you  fool,  that 
her  friends  resent  you,  that  they  will  none  of 
you?  They  won't  touch  you.  If  Clarissa  marries 
you,  it  is  the  end  of  her.  Her  friends  will  try  to 
prevent  it,  if  they  don't  succeed  they  will  be  help 
less.  All  they  can  do  will  be  to  drop  her  and  they 
will  drop  her.  She  will  be  ostracized. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Nobody  will  invite  her  anywhere. 
She  will  have  no  society.  She  will  lose  caste. 

ELIZABETH.  They  have  begun  already.  Today 
the  president  of  a  woman's  club  who  was  going 
to  appoint  Clarissa  chairman  of  a  committee  de 
cided  not  to.  And  another  woman  struck  her 

203 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

name  off  a  list  she  was  getting  up  for  a  bridge 
club. 

PETER.  You  mean  if  she  marries  me,  she'll 
lose  her  friends? 

ELIZABETH.  Of  course.  A  woman's  social 
standing  is  gauged  by  her  husband's — she  can't 
rise  above  his.  Her  family  and  friends  will  never 
admit  you  to  their  social  circle.  You — a  product 
of  the  gutter! 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  look  at  you — your  clothing, 
your  manners,  the  way  you  stand,  you  lout,  you 
knave,  you  low  politician,  you  boor!  Oh,  it  will 
kill  me!  I  am  not  strong — I  never  have  been 
strong!  It  will  break  my  heart  and  take  my 
life!  [She  bursts  into  tears.] 

ELIZABETH.     It  would  kill  her  mother. 

PETER.    I  don't  see  why  it  should  kill  her. 

ELIZABETH.  That  is  just  it — you  are  too  coarse 
grained  to  see!  But  at  least  you  ought  to  be  able 
to  comprehend  that  /  know.  /  understand  the 
situation  as  perfectly  as  it  is  impossible  for  you 
to  understand  it,  and  it  is  only  left  for  you  to 
take  my  word  for  it.  You  must.  You've  got  to. 
It  is  the  only  thing  left  for  you  to  do.  This  hor 
rible  thing  would  kill  her  mother.  Aunt  Julia 
would  not  survive  it  a  year. 

PETER.     You  make  it  pretty  hard,  ma'am. 

ELIZABETH.  Hard?  Do  you  think  it  is  easy 
for  me?  Do  you  think  I  am  enjoying  it?  To  try 
to  explain  something  incomprehensible  to  a  rough, 
coarse-grained  oaf  like  you?  To  try  to  get  you 
to  see  that  Clarissa  would  lose  her  social  stand 
ing — all  that  makes  life  worth  while.  All  the 

204 


PETER    DONELLY 


little  pleasures  and  connections  she  has  always 
enjoyed,  the  things  and  people  she  was  born  to 
and  has  always  possessed — her  friends  that  she 
would  lose,  one  after  another,  the  pleasures  that 
would  drop  away,  one  after  another,  till  there 
was  nothing  left — nothing — but  you  and  her  life 
with  you,  which  in  the  end  she  could  not  possibly 
bear.  She  wasn't  born  for  your  life — she  would 
hate  it.  She  would  have  to  give  up  all  her  own 
life  for  you  and  in  the  end  she  would  hate  you  for 
it.  I  said  it  would  kill  her  mother,  and  do  you 
think  she  herself,  Clarissa,  could  stand  that?  No, 
no  daughter  could.  It  would  fill  her  with  regret 
and  hatred  for  you,  the  cause  of  it.  It  would 
wreck  her.  In  the  end  it  would  kill  Clarissa. 
Oh,  it  is  monstrous — criminal — 

PETER  [though  he  has  reddened  and  become  more 
and  more  excited^  is  very  quiet,  his  face  now  be 
ing  full  of  suppressed  emotion}.  Wait!  [Holding 
up  his  hand.}  Don't  say  anything  more.  I've 
heard  enough.  You've  made  it  clear.  You 
maybe  could  have  done  it  a  little  different,  but 
anyhow  you've  done  it.  I  guess  I  understand. 
I  guess  I've  been  a  fool.  I  always  was  a  hard 
worker,  and  so  things  came  pretty  easy  and  I 
guess  I  didn't  know  when  to  stop.  Sooner  or 
later  a  man  always  meets  what  he  can't  put  over, 
and  I  didn't  see  when  I  got  there.  I  hadn't  sense 
enough  to  realise  the  difference  between  me  and 
a  real  lady.  I  didn't  know  about  the  opposition 
of  the  family,  and  when  I  talked  about  them  and 
the  difference  between  her  class  and  mine  she  said 
her  mother's  objection  was  just  the  natural  ob- 

205 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

jection  of  a  mother  to  anyone,  and  I  hadn't  the 
sense  to  see  it  was  only  Miss  Allen's  kindness  of 
heart  that  made  her  say  so  to  me.  I  thought  I 
might  give  her  a  little  something — my  life  and  all 
I've  got.  You  see,  I  worship  her.  I  thought  I 
might  be  some  good  to  her  family  and  friends. 
I  wanted  to  give  her  some  pleasure  in  using  me 
and  my  things  and  money,  but  I  never  thought 
of  the  other  side — I  never  thought  about  her 
losing  anything.  All  I  thought  about  was  what 
I  could  do  for  her.  I  never  thought  about  her 
giving  up  things.  I  couldn't  stand  that.  I 
wouldn't  hurt  her.  You  can  depend  on  that. 
You  can  depend  on  me  for  that.  I'll  get  out.  I 
wouldn't  come  between  her  and  her  mother.  I 
wouldn't  want  the  old  lady  to  suffer — much  less 
her!  I  wouldn't  come  between  them  and  all  her 
home  ties  and  all  she's  ever  had.  I'll  go.  I'd 
better  go  straight  off.  [Turning  to  Clarissa,  who 
has  been  watching  him  intently  and  in  utter  amaze 
ment^  Good-bye,  little  girl.  I  guess — [his  voice 
trembling  and  choking — I  guess  I  better  not  shake 
hands.  [For  a  second  they  gaze  at  each  other,  then 
without  a  word  or  sound,  he  turns  away  and  starts 
to  walk  out.  Clarissa  gives  a  little  low  cry,  runs  to 
him,  throws  her  arms  about  his  neck.] 

CLARISSA.  Peter!  What  have  you  to  say  to 
me?  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  let  you  go 
like  this?  Don't  you  know  I  care  about  you? 
Why  do  you  think  I  promised  to  marry  you?  I 
did  promise,  you  remember.  Maybe,  if  you  try 
hard  enough,  you'll  remember  the  circumstances 
— and  so  did  you  promise  to  marry  me.  And  I 

206 


PETER    DONELLY 


am  not  going  to  let  you  break  your  promise. 
[She  releases  him,  but  still  holds  his  hand.}  I  am 
the  person  to  decide  this  question,  I'll  have  you 
to  know.  Do  you  suppose  for  one  moment  that 
I  am  going  to  permit  two  women  to  sit  up  and 
decide  that  I  must  not  marry  this  man  and  this 
man  to  acquiesce  in  the  decision  and  say  they 
are  perfectly  right  and  he  will  not  marry  me! 
Why,  Peter,  you  are  a  big  booby  to  allow  your 
self  to  be  so  bullied  by  two  women!  But  I  am  not 
or  at  least  I  am  not  going  to  allow  myself  to  be 
bullied  any  longer.  I  have  stood  all  I  am  going 
to  stand,  Mother  and  Elizabeth,  I  want  you  to 
realise  that.  I  am  not  a  child,  I  am  a  woman — 
and  not  a  young  one,  either.  I  have  chosen  to 
marry  Peter  and  I  am  going  to  do  so,  understand, 
because  he  is  what  I  want — I  want  his  love — 
because  we  respect  each  other  and  have  some 
sort  of  tenderness  and  consideration  for  each 
other.  [She  drops  his  hand.]  I  know  him  and 
you  don't.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  though  he 
may  not  have  the  wonderful  blue  blood  in  his 
veins  that  has  given  some  of  our  relatives  an 
interesting  purple  past,  he  has  a  brain  in  his  head 
the  like  of  which  has  not  occurred  in  our  beloved 
family  for  many  generations.  And  if  he  can't 
play  golf  or  wear  a  fraternity  pin,  he  has  a  big 
heart  that  he  wears  on  his  sleeve,  and  a  nobility 
that  keeps  him  from  injustice  and  rudeness.  If 
marrying  him  is  going  to  make  people  drop  me, 
they'll  have  to  drop  me — and  I  don't  think  I'll 
feel  the  jar. 

MRS.  ALLEN  [moaning].    Clarissa,  Clarissa,  my 
207 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

child,  don't  talk  so!  Don't  use  such  coarse  and 
vulgar  language! 

ELIZABETH.  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying — you  are  carrying  on  like  an  insane 
person. 

CLARISSA.  Insane  nothing!  I  am  doing  the 
most  sensible  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life. 

ELIZABETH.  You  are  not  going  to  do  it.  We 
are  not  going  to  let  you.  Come  away!  [She 
seizes  Clarissa  by  the  arm  and  attempts  to  lead  her 
out  of  the  room.  Clarissa  angrily  shakes  her  off 
and  stands  away  from  her.  Peter  has  all  through 
this  proclamation  of  free  speech,  stood  still  regard 
ing  Clarissa  with  wide-eyed  and  intense  amaze 
ment  and  delight^ 

CLARISSA.  Let  me  alone,  Elizabeth.  I  am  not 
going  to  be  bossed  by  you  or  anyone  else  any 
longer.  Carrying  on  like  an  insane  person,  am 
I?  Well,  if  I  am — which  I'm  not — it  is  you  who 
have  driven  me  to  it  with  your  impertinent  and 
uncalled-for  intrusion  into  my  affairs.  Don't 
know  what  I  am  saying,  indeed!  Which  leads 
me  to  say  a  great  deal  more  than  I  would  have 
said  otherwise.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all  ex 
actly  why  I  am  marrying  Peter — though,  Peter 
[fuming  to  him],  with  your  kindness  and  insight 
into  human  nature  you  might  have  guessed. 
Don't  you  see,  Peter,  that  I  am  sick  of  it  all — of 
social  distinctions  and  propriety  and  blue  blood 
and  all  the  life-lies  I  have  had  to  live  by?  Maybe 
if  I  had  been  pretty  and  gay  and  popular  I 
wouldn't  have  cared,  but  I  wasn't  and  I  do.  I 
was  always  a  homely,  quiet  little  girl,  and  I  never 

208 


PETER    DONELLY 


had  a  lover  or  a  good  time  and  nobody  ever  cared. 
I  was  a  lonely  forsaken  little  girl,  the  odd  little 
black  sheep,  weak  and  timid,  in  a  family  of 
healthy  white  animals  all  alike  and  all  disliking 
me  for  being  different.  Nobody  ever  did  any 
thing  for  me  till  you  came  along  and  then  they 
all  stand  up  on  their  hind-legs  and  kick  up  a 
hullabaloo  of  the  danger  to  their  class  pride  if 
even  the  little  black  sheep  mates  out  of  the  drove! 

ELIZABETH.     Clarissa! 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  heaven,  such  sentiments, 
such  language! 

CLARISSA.  Even  so!  I'm  going  to  get  it  all 
out — I'm  going  to  make  a  clean  sweep.  Don't 
you  see,  Peter,  what  I've  been  up  against?  Lots 
society  cares  about  me,  except  to  control  me. 
Society!  I've  been  fed  on  blue  blood  till  I'm 
sick  of  it.  Family!  Why,  we've  had  locomotor- 
ataxia  and  everything  else  in  our  family.  We've 
collected  rents  from  tenements  that  were  not  fit 
for  pigs  to  live  in.  We've  avoided  paying  taxes 
in  every  possible  way.  We've  made  money  out 
of  making  soap  that  we  sell  for  three  times  what 
it  is  worth.  We've  committed  all  the  crimes 
that  all  the  rest  of  rich,  selfish  humanity  has 
committed.  Who  are  we?  What  is  there  for  us 
to  be  proud  of?  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  was 
taught  so  that  I  believed  that  all  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  were  Republicans  and  everybody  outside 
the  Episcopal  Church  was  the  scum  of  the  earth. 
I  had  to  go  to  Sunday  School  and  dancing  class, 
when  I  hated  them  both  because  all  the  other 
little  boys  and  girls  slighted  me,  and  I  was  never 

14  209 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

allowed  to  play  with  any  little  boys  and  girls 
outside  my  class,  and  they  all  picked  on  me  or 
else  teased  me  or  else  left  me  out  of  things  so 
that  I  was  more  lonesome  than  when  I  was  alone. 
Later  on  I  had  to  make  calls  and  go  to  teas  and 
dances,  and  I  was  miserable  because  I  couldn't 
chatter  and  dance  and  everybody  slighted  me. 
What  I  wanted  was  work.  I  wanted  to  be  a 
newspaper  reporter,  but  they  wouldn't  let  me 
because  it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  family. 
They  talked  me  over  at  family  dinners — I  sup 
pose  they  never  guessed  how  unhappy  I  was. 
My  cousins  made  fun  of  my  clothes — because  I 
liked  warm  rough  things  and  not  thin  filmy 
stuff  that  is  supposed  to  be  for  ladies.  And 
Aunt  Harriet,  who  is  Elizabeth's  mother,  would 
insist  upon  taking  me  shopping.  I  had  to  go 
calling  with  mother  on  stupid  women  who  talked 
all  about  their  diseases  and  sometimes  would  ask 
condescendingly  about  my  slum  work.  When  I 
wanted  to  be  a  stenographer  the  family  raised  a 
hue  and  cry.  Why  was  I  so  queer  that  I  must 
want  to  work  like  a  poor  girl?  Wasn't  there 
plenty  of  money  coming  in  from  the  tenements 
and  the  soap?  I  am  never  noticed  in  the  family 
except  when  I  do  something  different  from  the 
rest  and  then  noticed  only  to  be  criticised.  The 
black  sheep  of  the  family,  the  round  ball  in  the 
square  hole — oh,  how  square  and  mathematical 
and  even  and  measured  and  standardized  by  gen 
erations  of  aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins — but 
they  think  I  must  stay  there  because  I  am  my 
mother's  only  child.  The  aunts  and  uncles  and 

210 


PETER    DONELLY 


cousins — most  of  them  commonplace  enough  and 
many  of  them  distinctly  unpleasant  but  squarely 
filling  their  little  square  holes.  And  now  at  last 
I  am  an  old  maid — an  old  maid  who  has  never 
had  a  happy  youth — but  few  of  them  do  have. 
And  I  have  been  slow  developing  and  am  just  at 
last  realising  that  I  have  powers  of  enjoyment  in 
abundance  for  the  sort  of  things  I  myself  really 
like — not  the  things  I  have  been  forced  to  try  to 
like.  And  then  you  come  along,  Peter,  and  offer 
me  means  of  escape  from  the  shackles  and  bore- 
some  old  restraint.  Do  you  think  I  would  refuse 
it?  I  don't  know  how  I  happened  to  love  you — 
does  anybody  ever  know? — or  how  you  happened 
to  love  me,  but  I  know  I  want  you  because  you 
don't  criticise  me.  You  don't  care  if  I  wear  brown 
gloves  when  other  women  are  all  wearing  white 
ones  and  you  fortunately  don't  know  all  about 
the  rules  and  regulations  of  society  that  I  am  so 
deadly  sick  of.  You  take  me  as  I  am — [stopping 
for  breath.} 

PETER.  You  bet  I  do — because  you  are  all 
right. 

CLARISSA.  That's  just  it — the  least  of  us  want 
that  from  somebody.  The  cosiest  feeling  of  com 
fort  I  have  ever  had  in  my  life  is  just  that  feeling 
of  being  right  in  your  eyes.  [Turning  to  the  others.} 
In  addition,  I  like  him.  Oh,  it  was  I  who  led  him 
on — don't  blame  him.  He  is  a  politician,  of 
course,  but  so  are  Senator  Lodge  and  Lord  Bal- 
four.  And  he  is  human.  I  like  him  because  of 
his  breeziness  and  humor.  He  has  made  the 
youngsters  of  the  fourth  ward  happy  and  many 

211 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

other  people — and  he  has  made  me  happy.  As 
for  your  losing  me,  Mother,  you  won't,  of  course, 
because  I  refuse  to  be  lost.  And  you  will  keep 
right  on  playing  auction  and  getting  pretty  clothes 
and  being  happy  in  your  own  way  and  not  think 
ing  of  me  just  as  usual.  But  I  never  dreamed  you 
and  Elizabeth  could  be  so  ill-bred,  so  brutal. 
You'll  have  to  take  it  all  back,  you  understand. 
You'll  have  to  tell  Peter  you're  sorry.  Now 
you'd  better  go  and  wash  your  eyes  and  make 
yourself  presentable  for  dinner.  Elizabeth,  you 
are  welcome  to  stay,  if  you  like.  I  expect  to  go 
to  your  house  whenever  I  choose,  just  the  same 
and  you  will  do  the  same  here  as  you  always  have, 
of  course.  Only  understand  I'm  going  to  say 
and  do  what  I  like  now  and  hereafter  and  shall 
not  ever  allow  myself  to  be  bullied  again.  I'm  a 
person  to  be  reckoned  with  now — I've  got  some 
one  to  rely  on — to  back  me  up.  Someone  who 
believes  in  me.  And  understand  that  you've  both 
got  to  treat  Peter  decently  because  he  belongs  to 
me.  And  I'm  one  of  the  family.  [With  a  smile.} 

ELIZABETH.  There  is  no  use  trying  to  say 
anything  more  to  her  today,  Aunt  Julia.  She  is 
a  perfect  spit-fire. 

MRS.  ALLEN  [rising].  Oh,  Elizabeth,  don't 
leave  me!  [Going  over  to  her  niece.] 

ELIZABETH.  No,  Aunt  Julia,  I'll  never  desert 
you. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  I  need  your  support.  I  never 
knew  her  to  take  such  a  stand,  to  talk  as  she  did. 
She  is  quite  unlike  herself. 

CLARISSA.    Perhaps  I  am  being  quite  like  my- 

212 


PETER    DONELLY 


self  at  last  and  not  everlastingly  trying  to  be  like 
someone  else. 

MRS.  ALLEN.    Oh,  Elizabeth,  hear  her! 

ELIZABETH.  I  certainly  do,  Aunt  Julia,  it  is 
shocking. 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  do  run  along,  both  of  you,  and 
wash  your  tear-stained  faces.  I'm  sure  dinner 
will  be  served  any  minute. 

MRS.  ALLEN.  Oh,  Elizabeth,  you'll  have  to 
stay!  I  cannot  be  left  alone  with  them.  You 
must! 

ELIZABETH  [putting  her  arm  about  Mrs.  Allen 
as  they  go  out}.  After  such  a  scene!  I  don't  see 
how  I  can — but  of  course  I  will  not  desert  you. 

CLARISSA.  Do  stay,  Elizabeth.  You'll  find 
Peter  very  diverting. 

ELIZABETH  [glaring  back  at  her  as  she  goes  out 
with  her  aunt].  I  shall  stay,  Aunt  Julia! 

[They  go.  Peter  turns  to  Clarissa  and  gazes  at 
her  with  unbounded  admiration  beaming  on 
his  smiling  face.] 

PETER.  By  golly,  but  you  stood  up  to  them! 
And  you  stood  up  for  me!  You  are  some  little 
soldier  right  at  the  cannon's  mouth! 

CLARISSA.  You  mustn't  say  "by  golly," 
Peter.  That  is  one  of  the  things  that  prejudices 
people  against  you. 

PETER.  Oh,  I  reckon,  by  golly, — I  mean  that's 
absolutely  true!  [Laughing^and  half -embarrassed.} 
I  forget  so.  You'll  have  to  teach  me  to  talk  and 
I  guess  you'll  have  a  harder  time  doing  it  than 
if  I  was  a  baby  learning.  But  say,  maybe  some 
that  they  said,  was  true. 

213 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

CLARISSA.     Maybe  it  was. 

PETER.     But  say,  if  it  is— 

CLARISSA.  If  it  is,  then  we'll  have  to  convince 
people.  We'll  have  to  begin  at  home,  like  charity, 
with  Mother. 

PETER.  I'd  like  so  awful  well  to  be  good  to 
her.  But  she — well,  for  one  thing  she  don't  like 
my  clothes.  You  reckon  you  could  buy  the  right 
kind  of  suit  for  me? 

CLARISSA.  You  know  I  like  your  gay  clothes, 
Peter.  It's  all  a  part  of  the  gayety  and  health 
and  niceness  of  you.  But  you  can  wear  some 
others  for  Mother.  We'll  go  slow  and  we'll  win 
Mother  and  Elizabeth  and  everybody,  finally. 
It's  no  easy  job.  You  saw  her  last  look.  And 
you've  got  to  stand  by  me. 

PETER.  I'll  stand  wherever  you  want  me  to, 
you  know  that.  But  it's  awful  hard  work  you've 
got  ahead  of  you,  teaching  me.  I'm  no  spring 
chicken,  either,  you  know,  my  dear. 

CLARISSA.  You  have  given  me  happiness, 
Peter.  I  shall  be  getting  a  lot  of  pleasure  out  of 
anything  I  do  with  you. 

PETER.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  are — you  are — ! 
If  I  can't  use  slang  how  on  earth  can  I  say  what 
you  are? 

CLARISSA.  Oh,  Peter,  you  are  such  a  goose! 
I  am  your  little  girl,  of  course,  that  is  perfectly 
plain — the  first  person  I  ever  belonged  to,  be 
cause  you  belong  to  me. 

PETER.  Well,  my  dear,  there  is  one  thing  more 
you  are — you  are  an  angel!  [He  fakes  her  in  his 
arms.]  [CURTAIN.] 

214 


AN  APOCRYPHAL  EPISODE. 

Being  an  Interlude  Not  Generally  Found  in  Ordinary  Editions  of 
The  Odyssey  or  The  Mneid. 

CHARACTERS  AS  THEY  APPEAR. 
DlDO. 

ULYSSES. 


CALYPSO. 

[In  the  centre  of  a  grassy  open  space,  a  sort  of 
natural  court,  surrounded  by  tall  trees  and  many 
flowering  bushes  ,  a  funeral  pile  has  been  erected. 
It  is  high  and  of  generous  proportions.  About 
it  are  strewn  funeral  boughs  and  garlands,  and 
upon  it  lie  the  nuptial  bed  of  dLneas  and  Dido, 
heaped  with  the  Trojan's  clothing,  armor,  and 
sword  which  he  had  left  when  he  departed  pre 
cipitately  for  his  ship.  It  is  late  night,  just 
before  dawn,  that  sullen,  haunted  hour  when 
sick  human  bodies  give  up  their  ghosts  and  when 
bones  long  dead  execute  a  danse  macabre  before 
returning  to  their  graves  at  the  cock's  first  crow. 
In  the  dim  grey  light  Dido  is  seen  with  hair 
dishevelled  and  gown  torn,  wandering  about  the 
funeral  pile.] 

DIDO.  Well,  I  must  make  up  my  mind.  I 
must  decide  whether  really  I,  Dido,  Queen  of 
Tyre,  shall  throw  my  very  good-looking  body  on 
the  sword  of  the  perfidious  Trojan  or  not.  The 

215 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

scene  is  all  set.  Everything  is  dramatically  ex 
ecuted.  I  have  done  all  I  could  possibly  think 
of  to  frighten  him  into  thinking  I  was  going  to 
commit  suicide,  and  he  hasn't  come  back  yet. 
I  must  say  I  hate  to  take  the  next  step.  One  does, 
you  know,  hesitate  to  take  the  step  that  leads  up 
to  the  top  of  a  funeral  pile.  I  believe  I  will  give 
him  a  few  minutes  more.  His  ship  may  possibly 
have  got  off,  though  I  don't  think  so.  In  any 
case  it  would  take  some  time  for  the  rumors  to 
reach  him  that  I  set  afloat  about  my  mad  condi 
tion  and  the  tragic  end  I  am  planning.  It  would 
be  silly  not  to  give  him  plenty  of  time.  [She  sits 
down  on  a  funeral  bough  and  is  silent  a  moment^ 
Of  course,  I  don't  have  to  commit  suicide.  Per 
haps  it  is  true  that  there  are  as  many  good  fish 
in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught — but  I  am  crazy 
about  Jineas.  Yet  there  are  quantities  of  men 
in  the  world,  and  I  am  a  widow.  [Thinks  a  mo 
ment.]  I  have  had  many  offers  since  my  husband 
died — a  handsome  widow  has.  I  might  marry 
one  of  those  Numidians.  But  they  are  all  so 
black  and  I've  always  preferred  light  men.  My 
own  complexion  is  dark,  and  it  is  better  for  a 
brunette  to  mate  with  a  blond.  It  makes  a 
happier  alliance.  Besides,  if  I  married  one  of 
them  he  might  remember  the  way  I  formerly 
scorned  him,  for  I  certainly  was  haughty  in  the 
way  I  declined  their  suits,  and  he  might  be  bad- 
tempered  and  nasty  later  on.  Then,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  might  collect  my  ships  and  follow  yEneas, 
since  he  is  so  bent  on  going  to  a  new  country. 
But  I  feel  sure  I  should  despise  a  pioneer  life. 

216 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

Hardships  are  not  in  my  line.  In  Italy — a  per 
fectly  new  and  unsettled  country — with  ^Eneas  I 
should  not  have  the  bare  comforts,  not  to  mention 
the  luxuries,  of  civilization  and  my  husband 
would  be  so  engrossed  with  the  founding  of 
Rome,  I  know  I  should  be  neglected.  No,  I  pre 
fer  city  life — a  city  already  founded — and  apart 
ments  suitable  for  royalty,  and  plenty  of  well- 
trained  servants  and  a  luxurious  table  and  an 
excellent  chef.  Perhaps  Rome  may  grow  into  a 
city  some  day,  but  it's  nothing  but  a  mud  bank 
on  the  Tiber  now.  No,  there  are  only  two  courses 
left  open  to  me,  either  to  get  JEneas  back  or  to 
commit  suicide  and  haunt  him.  I  suppose  it 
doesn't  make  any  difference  to  a  ghost  where  it 
is — that  my  ghost  would  be  as  comfortable  in  the 
pioneer  settlement  of  Rome  as  it  would  be  in  a 
big  established  city  like  Tyre.  Ghosts  never 
seem  to  be  comfortable  anywhere.  But  at  least 
I  could  get  some  pleasure  out  of  making  him 
miserable.  If  he  doesn't  come  back  and  I  do 
commit  suicide  I  shall  never  give  him  another 
easy  hour  in  his  life.  My  ghost  shall  make  him 
perfectly  miserable.  I  believe  I  will  climb  the 
funeral  pile  and  rave  some  more.  [She  gets  up 
and  begins  laboriously  and  with  much  sliding  back 
ward  to  ascend  the  funeral  -pile.  After  great  strug 
gling  she  arrives  out-of-breath  at  the  top.]  The 
descent  to  Avernus  may  be  easy  [breathing 
heavily],  but  the  preparatory  ascent  is  not.  [She 
drops  and  sits  in  a  heap  at  the  top  of  the  pile.] 
This  is  his  armor  [touching  it],  this  his  sword, 
and  these  are  his  clothes — the  vain  man,  he 

217 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

knew  he  was  good-looking  and  always  dressed 
well  to  set  off  his  manly  beauty.  Well,  I  may  as 
well  rage  a  bit  more  and  see  if  that  will  do  any 
good.  [She  rises  and  begins  screaming  and  rend 
ing  her  hair  and  gown .]  Oh,  me  unhappy!  Oh, 
Dido,  that  was  Queen  of  the  Tyrians,  now  dis 
tressed,  forlorn,  forsaken,  soul-depressed!  De 
serted  by  the  perfidious  Trojan,  I  must  now  seek 
death  by  my  own  hand.  I  will  set  fire  to  my 
funeral  pile  and  plunge  his  sword  into  my  bosom. 
Let  the  cruel  Trojan  from  the  sea  feed  his  eyes 
with  these  flames  and  bear  with  him  the  arrows 
of  my  death.  [She  stops  and  listens  a  moment 
and  then  speaks  in  a  lower  and  more  natural  tone 
of  voice^  I  may  as  well  pretend  to  do  it — he  may 
be  looking.  [She  again  raises  her  voice  and  shrieks.} 
So  I,  Dido,  Queen  of  Tyre,  die  by  the  sword  of 
him  who  has  so  cruelly  abandoned  me!  [She 
pretends  to  plunge  upon  the  sword  just  as  a  man  in 
full  armory  a  Greek,  rushes  in  and  leaps  to  the  pile, 
catching  the  sword  from  her,  exclaiming  mean 
while:] 

ULYSSES.  Hold  on,  hold  on!  There,  there,  my 
good  woman,  what  are  you  about?  [Dido,  pant 
ing  heavily,  would  fall,  but  he  supports  her  and  she 
collapses  in  his  arms.] 

DIDO  [with  eyes  closed}.    Ah! 

ULYSSES.  That  was  a  narrow  escape.  I  got 
here  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  [She  opens  her  eyes 
a  moment,  rolls  them — they  are  large  and  very  beau 
tiful,  and  Ulysses  gazes  at  her  in  deep  admiration 
— and  closes  them  again.  She  is  hanging  in  his 
arms,  utterly  relaxed.]  Come,  let  me  help  you 

218 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

down  from  this  infernal  affair.  [He  draws  her 
gently,  lifts,  half  carries  her  down  to  the  ground.} 
I  have  been  awfully  unlucky  in  the  last  few  years, 
getting  wrecked  and  lost  and  arriving  constantly 
in  the  most  malapropos  places,  but  I  certainly 

was  fortunate  this  time  to  get  here  just  at  the 
.  ,  J 

right  moment. 

DIDO  [starting  away  from  him  violently,  her 
eyes  dilated  and  gazing  at  him  with  pretended  sur 
prise  and  amazement].  Ah,  who  are  you?  You 
are  not  he! 

ULYSSES.  No,  evidently  not.  Did  you  think 
I  was? 

DIDO  [repeating  with  a  tragic  break  in  her  voice]. 
You  are  not  he! 

ULYSSES.  It  is  unfortunate  for  me  that  I  am 
not.  I  only  wish  I  were.  Would  you  mind  tell 
ing  me  whom  you  were  expecting? 

DIDO.     Tell  me  first  your  name. 

ULYSSES.  Well,  I  don't  much  like  to,  because 
it  seems  to  bring  bad  luck.  There  usually  ensues 
a  concatenation  of  circumstances  to  prevent  my 
moving  on.  But  I  don't  so  much  care  whether  I 
move  on  from  here  or  not.  I  don't  mind  telling 
you.  The  fact  is  that  I  think  I  should  have  to 
tell  you  anything.  I  am  Ulysses. 

DIDO  [starting].  Ulysses!  The  Achaian!  The 
Greek !  The  enemy  of  him !  Ah,  woe  is  me ! 

ULYSSES.  Bad  luck  does  seem  to  pursue  me 
after  all.  But  now  you  might  tell  me  who  he  is, 
and  more  especially  I  am  passionately  interested 
to  know  who  you  are. 

219 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

DIDO.  I  am  Dido,  Queen  of  Tyre,  and  he  is 
the  perfidious  Trojan,  pious  ^neas. 

ULYSSES.  Perfidious  is  the  word.  They  are  all 
that,  those  Trojans — perfidious,  lying,  deceiving 
in  every  possible  way,  abominable,  execrable, 
diabolical.  They  are  fiends  incarnate.  I  hope 
you  have  not  put  your  trust  in  yEneas. 

DIDO.    He  seemed  so  gentle,  so  plausible. 

ULYSSES.  That  is  just  their  way  of  spreading 
propaganda.  I  hope  you  didn't  believe  him. 

DIDO.  I  did.  I  trusted  every  word  that  fell 
from  his  lips.  He  won  me  with  his  marvelous 
tales  of  bravery  and  hardship. 

ULYSSES.  Manufactured  out  of  whole  cloth, 
every  one  of  them. 

DIDO.  He  worked  upon  my  woman's  sym 
pathy,  the  poor,  unfortunate,  lonely  man,  de 
prived  in  one  fell  blow  of  father  and  wife  and 
home. 

ULYSSES.     Lucky  dog! 

DIDO  [turning  on  him  fiercely].     What! 

ULYSSES.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that — I  only  mean 
that  by  being  an  object  of  pity  he  won  your — 
your  interest.  It's  a  funny  thing  a  woman  is 
always  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  a  man  because 
he's  lost  his  wife — another  woman.  Now  I  can't 
arouse  anybody's  sympathy,  because  I  have  a 
complete  outfit  of  home  and  family  back  in 
Greece. 

DIDO.  He  had  lost  his  spouse,  poor  lonely 
man! 

ULYSSES.  The  second  summer  is  the  dangerous 
age  for  infants,  the  fatal  one  for  widowers. 

220 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

DIDO.  He  had  his  son  with  him,  a  darling  little 
creature. 

ULYSSES  [nodding  his  head  gloomily].  There 
you  are.  Looked  like  Eros,  I  suppose.  And  so 
./Eneas  worked  on  your  sympathy  for  all  he  was 
worth,  and  you  took  care  of  him,  darned  his 
socks  and  nursed  the  baby. 

DIDO.  I  gave  him  hospitality  and  believed  him 
when  he  told  me  how  much  I  meant  to  him. 

ULYSSES.  Don't  believe  a  man  when  he  tells 
how  much  he  loves  you,  only  believe  him  when 
he  neglects  his  business  for  you. 

DIDO.  That  he  did  not  do.  It  was  his  business 
that  drew  him  away  from  me.  He  said  that  he 
must  go,  that  the  gods  intended  him  to  found  a 
city  and  raise  up  a  nation,  an  eternal  city,  Rome 
in  Italy.  All  my  entreaties  were  in  vain,  my 
tears,  my  supplications.  He,  who  had  won  me 
with  his  appeals,  his  distress,  his  soft  speech,  now 
became  cold,  callous,  stony-hearted,  abusive.  He 
left  me,  saying  he  would  sail  away  in  his  ship,  oh, 
stern  and  cruel  one!  Then,  overpowered  by  my 
grief,  I  took  the  Furies  into  my  breast  and  de 
termined  to  die.  There  is  in  my  palace  a  marble 
shrine  in  honor  of  my  former  husband,  to  whose 
memory  I  have  never  ceased  to  be  devoted. 
[Casting  her  eyes  piously  to  Heaven.}  To  that  I 
paid  extraordinary  veneration — after  ./Eneas  had 
deserted  me.  I  had  it  encircled  with  snowy 
fillets  of  wool  and  festal  garlands. 

ULYSSES  [sighing  deeply].  Ah,  fidelity  is  an 
appealing  quality  in  woman! 

DIDO.    But  I  have  only  the  ghost  of  my  former 

221 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

husband,  and  ./Eneas,  with  strong,  real  arms  and 
hot,  real  lips,  has  been  whispering  soft  nothings 
into  my  ear  and  stealing  away  my  heart. 

ULYSSES.  It  would  have  been  wiser  to  steel 
your  heart  against  him  than  to  have  him  steal  it. 

DIDO.  Ah,  me  unhappy,  I  am  the  victim  of 
masculine  charms !  Undone  by  the  perfidy  of  the 
pious  -/Eneas — 

ULYSSES.  Pious  people  always  are  to  be 
watched. 

DIDO.  I  determined  to  seek  death  by  my  own 
hand  and  descend  to  the  shade  of  my  former 
husband.  Therefore  yesterday  I  caused  this  vast 
funeral  pile  to  be  erected,  with  these  torches  and 
faggots  of  oak,  and  the  ground  strewn  with  these 
garlands  and  funeral  boughs  and  his  armor  and 
clothes  and  sword  carried  here  from  my  apart 
ment,  where  he  had  abandoned  them — and  had 
them  placed  on  top. 

ULYSSES.  If  he  went  off  without  his  things, 
don't  you  think  he'll  come  back? 

DIDO.     Oh,  no,  no! 

ULYSSES.     Then  you  must  have  had  a  scene. 

DIDO.  I  also  caused  altars  to  be  erected  around, 
and  a  priestess  with  hair  dishevelled  and  with 
thundering  voice  invoked  three  hundred  gods  and 
Erebus  and  Chaos  and  threefold  Hecate.  Oh,  she 
made  a  terrific  spectacle  of  herself. 

ULYSSES.     I  can  easily  believe  it. 

DIDO.  She  sprinkled  water  as  the  symbol  of 
the  lake  of  Avernus,  and  spread  full-grown  herbs 
cut  with  brazen  sickles  by  moonlight,  and  juice 
of  black  poison.  Oh,  it  was  all  done  properly. 

222 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

ULYSSES  [gallantly].  I  feel  sure  you  would  not 
leave  the  least  little  dramatic  thing  undone. 

DIDO.  Then,  at  night  when  the  others  had  all 
gone  to  bed,  I  alone  stood  by  the  altars  with 
salt  cake  and  appealed  to  the  gods  and  to  the 
stars. 

ULYSSES.  It  sounds  beautifully  lyric  and 
lovely. 

DIDO.  I  alone  stood  here  under  the  stars 
through  the  night  when  all  others  slept — when 
even  the  great  trees  of  the  woods  and  the  surging 
waves  of  the  sea  were  quiet  and  all  beasts  and 
speckled  birds,  both  the  water  birds  that  nest 
out  on  the  far  rocks  of  the  sea  and  the  little  birds 
that  live  in  the  tall  grasses  of  the  fields  and  in  the 
bushes.  All  through  the  silent  night  under  the 
stars  I  raged  and  beat  my  breast  for  the  per 
fidious,  pious  one  who  had  neglected  and  de 
serted  me. 

ULYSSES  [approaching  and  putting  his  arms 
around  her].  It  is  a  perfect  outrage,  my  dear  girl. 
I  cannot  understand  how  any  man  could  be  so 
callous  to  your  charms. 

DIDO.  Oh,  indeed,  it  wasn't  that!  He  wasn't 
callous  at  all,  but  he  was  too  ambitious  to  found 
a  family  and  build  a  city. 

ULYSSES.  Ah,  I  see — the  old,  old  chaste  com 
bination  of  piety  and  the  love  of  riches. 

DIDO  [as  if  suddenly  recollecting  herself].  Oh, 
my  friend,  I  had  in  my  distracted  state  of  mind 
almost  forgotten  my  hospitality.  You  must  be 
travel-worn  and  weary. 

ULYSSES  [sighing].  I  am  always  travel-worn 
223 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

and  weary.  I  am  forever  be  ng  shipwrecked  and 
lost.  It  has  got  to  be  my  normal  condition. 

DIDO.  Then  come  with  me  to  my  palace,  that 
I  may  provide  you  with  refreshment. 

ULYSSES  (with  a  meaning  glance}.  My  charm 
ing  hostess,  I  think  I  would  come  with  you  any 
where.  [He  offers  her  his  arm  and  they  proceed 
off  to  the  right.  As  they  go,  SEneas  and  Calypso 
appear  from  the  left,  entering  cautiously.  They 
have  seen  Dido  and  Ulysses  and  have  watched  them 
goy  but  the  others  have  not  seen  them.} 

./ENEAS  [his  lip  curling  with  scorn .  She  is  al 
ready  flirting  with  another  man! 

CALYPSO.  Well,  are  you  surprised?  You  de 
serted  her,  didn't  you?  What  does  a  man  expect 
when  he  leaves  a  woman  to  the  wiles  of  any  pass 
ing  stranger?  And  Ulysses  has  wiles,  I  can 
assure  you.  Besides,  my  dear  fellow,  what  are 
you  doing?  Haven't  you  been  flirting  with  me 
as  hard  as  you  could? 

./ENEAS  [sighing  heavily}.  Oh,  please  do  not  call 
it  flirting.  I  am  quite  in  earnest,  I  do  assure  you. 
From  the  moment  I  saw  you  sitting  upon  a  rock 
on  the  shore  when  I  was  tossing  in  my  ship  among 
the  surges  I  knew  some  beneficent  god  was  di 
recting  me  to  come  to  you. 

CALYPSO  [smiling}.  Perhaps  the  gods  are  not 
quite  so  busy  with  human  destinies  as  you  think. 
You  see  I  know  a  little  bit  about  them,  being  one 
on  my  father's  side. 

./ENEAS.  You  are  a  goddess  and  a  queen.  You 
are  everything  that  is  beautiful  and  attractive. 

224 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

[Raptly.]  You  must  be  divine,  since  you  are  so 
good. 

CALYPSO.  Oh,  thank  you.  Such  a  remark  is 
very  appealing,  even  coming  from  a  stranger. 
I  don't  often  hear  this  sentiment  about  myself. 
You  know  a  woman,  even  a  goddess  on  her  father's 
side,  becomes  a  little  weary  of  hearing  nothing 
but  pretty  things  said  about  her  beauty — the 
perfection  of  her  eyes  or  the  loveliness  of  her  nose 
[with  a  wan,  sad  smile],  and  longs  to  hear  a  com 
pliment  to  her  goodness,  especially  from  a  pious 
man  like  you.  [Smiling  at  him  archly.] 

^ENEAS.     Then  you  do  admire  piety  in  a  man? 

CALYPSO.  Oh,  piety  has  the  greatest  fascina 
tion  for  me.  It  does  for  all  women.  That  is  why 
so  many  men  are  married — most  men  are  so  good. 

^NEAS.  But  you  came  here  after  Ulysses,  you 
said  you  followed  him.  Ulysses  is  not  pious,  he 
is  a  perfidious  Greek,  fickle,  untrustworthy,  base. 

CALYPSO.  I  followed  him  to  be  revenged. 
When  a  man  tires  of  a  woman,  as  he  always  does 
unless  she  gets  ahead  of  him  and  does  it  first, 
when  he  forsakes  her,  some  women  try  to  lure 
him  back  by  charms,  some  forget  him  and  per 
suade  themselves  they  are  better  off,  some  follow 
him.  That  is  the  course  men  dislike  most,  so  I 
followed  him. 

^ENEAS.  But  you  will  give  up  following  him 
now?  You  will  turn  your  attentions  to  a  more 
worthy  object? 

CALYPSO.  Now  don't  you  think  that  is  carry 
ing  piety  a  little  too  far?  Revenge  is  a  very 

u  22$ 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

noble  and  ancient  virtue.  Call  it  punishment  if 
you  prefer.  Every  pious  person  knows  that  he 
wants  to  revenge  himself  upon  his  enemy — that 
is,  of  course,  to  say  that  the  wrong-doer  must  be 
punished. 

JiNEAS.  If  I  should  meet  this  perfidious  Greek 
I  should  punish  him.  It  is  not  fitting  for  you  to 
do  so,  it  is  fitting  for  you — 

CALYPSO.  But  you  just  saw  him  and  I  didn't 
notice  you  rushing  after  him. 

^NEAS.  — it  is  fitting  for  you,  a  pious  woman, 
to  unite  yourself  with  a  pious  man  and  found  a 
pious  family  and  build  a  pious  city  and  establish 
a  pious  race  and  nation. 

CALYPSO.    Do  you  really  expect  to  do  all  that? 

^NEAS  [solemnly].    It  is  the  will  of  the  gods. 

CALYPSO.  Well,  then,  I  suppose  you  are  going 
to  do  it.  If  a  man  persuades  himself  that  the  gods 
are  backing  him  up,  he  generally  succeeds — at 
least  for  a  time.  There's  everything  in  thinking 
you  have  moral  support. 

^ENEAS  [suddenly].  Oh,  Calypso,  my  perfect 
one,  come  away  with  me  to  Italy!  [Holding  out 
his  arms  to  her  beseechingly.] 

CALYPSO.    Hark,  someone  is  approaching! 

^ENEAS.  Then  let  us  wander  off  to  the  sea  and 
watch  the  shining  rays  of  the  dawning  sun  play 
upon  the  rippling  waves.  Besides,  it  will  be 
safer  there. 

[They  go,   and  almost   immediately   Dido   and 
Ulysses  enter.] 

226 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

DIDO.  The  arms  would  have  been  perfectly 
safe.  No  one  would  be  impious  enough  to  rob 
a  funeral  pile. 

ULYSSES.  It  is  wiser  for  us  to  come  back  and 
get  them.  My  dear,  I  feel  much  surer  to  have 
the  sword  of  .^Eneas  in  my  own  possession.  It 
isn't  safe  to  leave  arms  lying  around.  They  may 
go  off.  [He  proceeds  to  climb  the  pile  and  pick  up 
the  sword.] 

DIDO.  But  a  funeral  pile  is  inviolate  and  a 
sword  couldn't  go  off. 

ULYSSES.  Oh,  innocent-minded  woman,  it 
might  with  a  man,  and  the  perfidious  Trojan  is 
impious  enough  to  rob  his  own  funeral  pile. 
[He  descends.]  Now  I  feel  easier  about  it.  [Ad 
justing  the  sword  into  his  own  belt.]  It  comes  in 
handy,  for  my  own  sword  went  to  the  bottom  in 
my  last  shipwreck.  It  was  one  I  rather  valued, 
too,  presented  to  me  by  the  father  of  Nausicaa 
after  I  was  shipwrecked  in  front  of  their  house. 
Poor  girl!  She  was  so  impressionable  1  And  a 
shipwrecked  man  cannot  help  being  a  little 
grateful.  [He  smiles  reminiscently.] 

DIDO.  You  seem  to  have  been  shipwrecked  a 
great  deal. 

ULYSSES.  Yes,  I  have  got  into  the  habit.  I 
may  say  it  is  my  worst,  almost  my  only,  bad  habit. 
[Patting  the  sword.]  Well,  I  feel  more  comfortable 
with  this  in  my  possession.  As  for  ^neas,  he 
can  get  another  when  he  goes  aboard  his  own  ship. 
Lucky  dog,  to  have  his  own  ship!  I  hope  he's 
well  embarked  by  now. 

DIDO.  Will  you  come  now  and  refresh  your 
227 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

weary  heart  with  wine  and  bread  and  luscious 
fruits? 

ULYSSES.  I  will,  my  queen,  and  afterwards,  if 
I  may,  I  will  lie  with  my  head  pillowed  on  your 
breast  and  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  music  of  your 
heart.  [He  fakes  her  arm  and  they  go  out.  At 
once  the  other  two  enter  from  the  other  side,  Calypso 
with  knitted  brows,  her  face  intense  with  anger  and 
hatred,  her  movements  quick,  ALneas  following 
slowly  a  few  feet  behind^ 

./ENEAS.  I  told  you  not  to  wait  and  listen 
or  you'd  hear  something  you  didn't  want  to 
hear. 

CALYPSO.  The  fickle  knave!  And  she — the 
weak  impostor! 

./ENEAS.    You'd  much  better  come  with  me. 

CALYPSO  {her  expression  changing  slowly  as  if 
a  sudden  thought  had  just  come  to  her,  as  she  seems 
to  be  cogitating  and  planning  keenly  and  quickly, 
turns  suddenly  and  directly  to  him].  Do  you  really 
love  me? 

./ENEAS.  I  worship  you.  [He  stands  stock- 
still ',  however,  and  she  approaches  him.] 

CALYPSO.    What  would  you  give  for  a  kiss? 

./ENEAS.    Do  you  really  mean  it,  goddess? 

CALYPSO  [playing  the  siren  and  alluring  him 
to  the  full  extent  of  her  power].  Will  you  try  to 
steal  a  kiss,  oh,  faint-hearted  one?  [He  slowly 
approaches  and  finally  puts  his  arm  about  her, 
catching  her  to  him  in  a  closer  embrace.  As  he  does 
so,  she  screams  frantically]  Oh,  oh,  loose  me, 
ruffian!  Oh,  help,  help,  help! 

228 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

[Dido  and  Ulysses  come  running,  but,  seeing 
who  the  others  are,  they  stop  and  Ulysses  puts 
his  arm  about  Dido.  Calypso  is  still  in  the 
arms  of  JEneas,  managing  to  cling  to  him  so 
that  he  is  made  to  appear  to  be  holding  her, 
and  standing  thus,  the  two  couples  on  either 
side  regard  each  other.  Dido  disengages  her 
self  from  Ulysses  and  takes  a  few  steps  towards 
the  others.] 

DIDO.  Oh,  ^Eneas!  Oh,  perfidious,  but  be 
loved  and  pious  hero! 

CALYPSO  [as  if  trying  with  difficulty  to  free  her 
self].  This  man  has  followed  and  besought  and 
wooed  and  pursued  me  and  at  last  when  I  was 
helpless  has  attacked  me. 

DIDO  [advancing  to  him}.  Adored  one!  My 
heart's  treasure! 

[Ulysses y  left  alone,  bursts  into  fury,  draws  his 
sword  and  prepares  for  an  attack  upon  dEneas.] 

ULYSSES.  Oh,  you  scoundrel,  dog,  impious 
wretch,  coward,  traitor,  deserter,  base  one,  cur! 
It  is  not  enough  for  you  to  make  love  to  one 
woman  and  then  forsake  her,  but  you  must  now 
proceed  to  play  the  villain  with  another!  Come 
on!  Defend  yourself!  [He  brandishes  his  sword.} 

./ENEAS  [disentangling  himself  from  Calypso  on 
the  one  hand  and  from  Dido  on  the  other,  who  en 
deavors  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms].  Can't  you 
let  me  alone,  both  of  you?  It  wasn't  my  fault. 
She  enticed  me.  She  lured  me  on. 

ULYSSES.    Who  did? 

CALYPSO.  Not  I!  Anyone  that  knows  me 
229 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

knows  that  I  would  never  entice  and  allure  a 
pious  man. 

DIDO.  Oh,  how  can  you,  ^Eneas?  You  know 
I  never  did. 

^NEAS.     They  both  did. 

CALYPSO.     Oh,  oh,  base  liar!    [Shrieking.] 

DIDO.     Oh,  ^Eneas!     [Weeping.] 

ULYSSES.  Enough!  You  low  defamer  of 
women,  defend  yourself!  Or  die  in  ignominy! 
[He  stalks  towards  JEneas  brandishing  his  sword, 
which  is  that  of  Mneas.  Calypso  and  Dido  start 
away  and  ALneas  jumps  back  and  proceeds  to  draw 
his  sword,  talking  the  while.] 

^ENEAS.  All  women  are  alike.  You  can't  de 
pend  on  any  of  them.  I  didn't  want  to  start 
this  quarrel.  I  didn't  want  to  fight.  I  really 
don't  like  quarrels  and  fighting.  I'm  always 
drawn  into  them.  I  do  wish  I  had  got  off  to 
Italy. 

ULYSSES  {grandiloquently}.  Coward  and  de 
ceiver!  [Lunges  at  JEneas.} 

[Ulysses  and  JEneas  fight.  At  first  jEneas 
chiefly  parries  the  blows  that  come  thick  and 
fast.  They  are  fairly  evenly  matched.  Calypso 
on  one  hand  and  Dido  on  the  other  watch, 
Calypso  with  intense  interest  and  delight.  Dido 
with  moans,  shrieks,  and  weeping.  Calypso 
is  confident,  knowing  the  wonderful  strength 
and  ability  of  Ulysses,  but  at  last  as  the  fight 
continues  for  some  time  with  no  apparent  sign 
of  victory  on  either  side,  she  finally  goes  over 
to  Dido  and,  after  watching  a  few  minutes 
230 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

more  with  Dido,  she  draws  her  aside  and  speaks 
to  her.} 

CALYPSO.  Which  of  these  two  men  do  you 
really  want? 

DIDO.  Oh,  /Eneas,  ./Eneas,  of  course!  How 
can  you  ask?  Oh,  oh,  I  am  so  much  afraid  he 
will  be  killed! 

CALYPSO.  If  you  feel  that  way,  then,  if  you 
want  him,  why  don't  you  get  him  out? 

DIDO.     Oh,  how  can  I?     Oh,  oh! 

CALYPSO.  Well,  there  is  really  no  need  for 
these  men  to  be  hacking  each  other  to  pieces, 
you  know.  They  both  love  me,  of  course,  but  I 
couldn't  be  bothered  with  ./Eneas.  [She  stands  as 
if  thinking,  then  with  loud  cries  she  runs  to  the  two 
warriors  and  throws  herself  between  them.]  Apart! 
Apart!  Stop  fighting  and  stand  aside!  [Ulysses 
and  jEneas,  as  she  throws  herself  between  them, 
separate,  draw  back  with  exclamations  and  stand 
gazing  at  her  in  amazement  and  perplexity^  You've 
both  shown  now  that  you  can  fight — that  you 
are  both  doughty  warriors — and  it  is  perfectly 
senseless  for  you  to  keep  on  till  you  cleave  each 
other  in  two.  There  are  four  of  us  now.  You 
are  great  fools  to  fight,  moreover,  when  you 
might  be  much  more  pleasantly  occupied. 

DIDO  [approaching  with  tears].    Oh,  ./Eneas! 

./ENEAS.     Do  not  speak  to  me,  woman! 

DIDO.    Oh,  ./Eneas! 

./ENEAS.    You  were  flirting  with  another  man! 

CALYPSO.    So?    Jealous,  are  you?    [Smiling.] 
Not   at   all — but — 
231 


TH4JID   BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

CALYPSO.  Oh,  you  aren't,  aren't  you?  Well, 
Dido  wasn't  flirting  in  the  least,  it  was  all  Ulysses' 
fault.  I  know  him.  She  wouldn't  flirt.  She  is  so 
good,  she  is  almost  simple-minded.  Why  don't 
you  take  her?  You  are  absolutely  cut  out  for 
each  other.  And  there  is  little  reason  to  doubt 
that  she  is  in  love  with  you.  Now  stop  your  silly 
fighting. 

^NEAS.  Well,  I  didn't  start  it.  I  never  did 
care  much  for  fighting.  By  nature  I  am  more  of 
a  business  man.  If  Ulysses  would  only  let  me 
alone  I  might  be  able  to  get  to  Italy  and  found 
a  family  and  a  city  even  yet. 

CALYPSO.     And  you,  Ulysses? 

ULYSSES  [with  deep  irony  and  anger].  And  you? 
You  were  carrying  on  with  this  Trojan — I  know 
you  were. 

CALYPSO.     What?    Jealous,  too? 

ULYSSES.     Certainly  not — but — 

CALYPSO  [sweetly].  No?  Is  it  so  strange  that 
neither  of  you  can  realize  it?  That  is  that  both 
Dido  and  I  are  not  wholly  without  charm  for 
other  men  perhaps  even  besides  yourselves? 
Honestly,  Ulysses,  won't  you  acknowledge  that 
we  are  both  beautiful? 

ULYSSES  [smiling  darkly}.  All  women  are  beau 
tiful — too  beautiful. 

CALYPSO.  And  you,  ^Eneas,  will  acknowledge, 
too,  that  we  are  both  beautiful? 

^NEAS.  My  piety  compels  me  to  tell  the  truth 
— that  you  are  both  of  you  beautiful — and  good, 
so  very  good. 

232 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

CALYPSO.  That's  all  right,  then.  You  won't 
fight  any  more  over  us? 

^ENEAS.  It  is  my  theory  that  fighting  should 
be  carried  on  by  slaves  alone.  Why  should  we 
feed  them,  otherwise?  In  future  history,  kings 
will  carry  on  their  wars  that  way — I  shall  put  that 
in  the  constitution  of  Rome.  Don't  you  agree 
with  me,  Ulysses? 

ULYSSES.  No,  I  don't  agree  with  you  about 
anything  and  never  shall,  but  I  am  willing  to 
stop  fighting  for  the  present,  if  you  wish.  This 
little  skirmish  has  got  my  blood  going  again  and 
I  feel  very  much  better — in  fact,  quite  myself 
once  more.  Dalliance  in  the  isle  of  Calypso  had 
got  me  awfully  soft  and  rusty.  Shipwrecks  are 
something,  but  they  don't  do  for  your  muscles 
what  a  good  fight  does.  A  man  needs  hard  ex 
ercise  if  he  has  been  used  to  it,  like  me,  in  wars 
and  things.  But  now — really — I  feel  quite  fit 
again. 

^ENEAS.  Look  here,  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea 
if  you  and  I  signed  a  peace  pact  between  our 
countries  for  future  ages? 

ULYSSES.  Dear  me,  no,  not  I.  I  don't  want  to 
consign  my  name  to  oblivion  by  being  the  father 
of  any  league  of  nations. 

^NEAS.  Oh,  come,  now,  it  would  be  so  noble 
and  humanitarian.  And  it  would  make  me  feel 
so  much  safer  about  the  mercantile  and  marine 
affairs  of  Rome. 

ULYSSES.  Why  should  I  sign  a  peace  pact 
when  I  like  war?  The  exercise  is  good  for  a  man's 
system,  and  anyhow  doubtless  I'll  get  into  a 

233 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

brawl  every  time  I  meet  one  of  your  country 
men.  It  will  be  that  way,  you  know.  Greece 
and  Rome  will  probably  keep  up  the  feud  for 
ever,  my  boy. 

./ENEAS.  Well,  it  will  be  very  bad  for  business 
unless  it  is  carried  on  by  slaves.  In  that  case — 
now  I  wonder? — // — war  may  prove  to  be  a  pro 
tection  to  business!  [Thoughtfully] 

CALYPSO.  ^Eneas,  ^Eneas,  Dido  is  waiting  for 
you.  Go  to  her — she  is  good,  so  very  good  and 
pious,  just  like  you.  You  are  both  pillars  of 
society.  [He  does  not  move  at  once  and  Calypso 
repeats  petulantly,  impatiently,  stamping  her  foot.] 
Go  to  her,  I  say.  \&nea s  goes  over  to  Dido,  who 
holds  out  her  arms  to  him.] 

DIDO.    My  ./Eneas,  my  own  pious  ^Eneas! 

CALYPSO.  Now  betake  yourselves  to  Dido's 
palace  and  have  your  cakes  and  wine  and  fruit 
and  be  happy. 

[Dido  hangs  upon  the  arm  of  &neas  and  they 
start  away  slowly  as  Calypso  continues  speak 
ing  to  Ulysses.] 

CALYPSO.  And  you,  my  Ulysses!  [Alluring 
him  with  the  charm  of  her  smile  and  attitude.] 
Come  with  me  to  the  island  of  joy. 

ULYSSES  [captivated  by  her]  I  am  only  human, 
you  know,  and  you  are — 

CALYPSO.  And  I  am  half  divine,  you  would 
say? 

ULYSSES.  No,  not  half  divine — you  are  divine! 
Perhaps  we  can — what  would  you  say? — perhaps 

234 


AN    APOCRYPHAL    EPISODE 

we   can   surreptitiously    borrow   one   of  ^Eneas' 
boats  to  take  us  back  to  the  island. 

CALYPSO.  Back  to  the  island  of  joy!  Our 
island  of  joy  where  the  little  waves  from  the  deep 
blue  sea  roll  and  curl  up  to  the  shore,  and  the 
wide,  fair  sands  are  opalescent  at  sunset  when 
music  makes  happy  and  all  the  sweetest  birds 
sing  in  the  fresh  green  olive  trees  and  saplings, 
where  the  smiling  sun  warms  and  the  dewy  wind 
cools  and  the  night  is  alive  with  stars  and  sweet 
with  the  floating  breath  of  jasmine  and  oleander. 
Come !  [She  holds  out  her  arms  to  him,  he  takes  her 
hand)  •putting  his  arm  around  her,  and  together 
they  wander  off  in  the  direction  of  the  sea,  as  Dido 
and  &neas  have  gone  off  in  the  other  direction  to 
ward  the  city.] 

[CURTAIN.] 


235 


STANDING  MOVING. 

CHARACTERS: 

BILLY.  BERTHA. 

MIRIAM.  GEORGE. 

In  this  play  two  actors  may  assume 
double  roles. 

[The  scene  represents  the  living-room  in  a  very 
old  frame  house.  Be  it  understood  that  the  house 
has  been  a  good  one  in  its  time,  built  on  large 
grounds  in  what  was  then  a  residential  part  of 
the  city,  but  it  has  been  allowed  to  go  to  rack  and 
ruin,  just  as  the  neighborhood  has  changed, 
deteriorating  into  a  slum.  The  room  has  been 
dismantled.  It  is  bare,  but  cluttered  with  stray 
unfortunate  articles  of  furniture.  A  large  old- 
fashioned  square  piano  stands  in  the  centre,  some 
broken  rocking-chairs  are  gathered  together  in  a 
helpless  group,  a  very  old  broken  clock  is  on  the 
mantelpiece,  three  large  dress-boxes  are  tied  to 
gether  on  the  floor,  several  old  family  oil  portraits 
lean  lop-sidedly  against  the  wall  on  the  floor,  etc. 
— as  much  as  you  please  to  indicate  the  hope 
lessly  left-overs  when  moving  ought  to  have  been 
done.  A  pretty  girl  enters  with  a  bungalow 
apron  on  much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  coat  over  it, 
and  her  hat  on.  She  carries  a  grip,  box  tied  with 
white  ribbon,  handbag,  glass  vase,  bronze  statue, 
two  framed  photographs,  large  Chinese  lantern, 
236 


STANDING    MOVING 

anything  else  you  may  think  ofy  which  she  de 
posits  on  the  floor.  A  latch-key  is  heard,  and  a 
young  man  appears  through  the  door  which  opens 
into  the  hall  behind.] 

BILLY  [looking  about  with  sharp  surprise  and 
disgust].  Well,  for  the  love  o'  Mike! 

MIRIAM.     What,  dear? 

BILLY.  You  said  this  morning  everything 
would  be  moved  today. 

MIRIAM.     Everything  is. 

BILLY.    Don't  you  call  all  this  truck  anything? 

MIRIAM.     Oh,  these  things  are  just  left-overs. 

BILLY.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
them  ? 

MIRIAM.     I  don't  know. 

BILLY.     You  don't  know? 

MIRIAM.  Yes.  That's  just  the  point.  Let's 
sit  down.  I'm  so  tired  I  can't  stand.  My  feet 
feel  as  if  they  would  come  off,  and  I  wish  they 
would — then  I  wouldn't  have  to  do  anything 
more.  [She  drops  to  the  floor  and  sits  there.]  The 
floor  is  so  dusty,  though  I  swept  it  myself  six 
times. 

BILLY.  Sit  on  those  [pointing  to  the  dress- 
boxes]. 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  I  couldn't!  I  never  "sat  on  you" 
in  my  life. 

BILLY.    I'm  not  three  paper  boxes. 

MIRIAM.  Yes  you  are,  dear,  symbolically. 
These  are  your  love  letters. 

BILLY.  Good  Lord,  did  I  write  all  that?  And 
paper  so  high!  Why  didn't  you  burn  them? 

237 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MIRIAM.  Billy,  I  could  never  burn  your  love- 
letters!  These  [indicating  the  box  tied  with  white 
ribbon]  are  the  letters  you  proposed  in. 

BILLY.     Good  Lord!    How  many? 

MIRIAM.     Thirty-nine. 

BILLY.  It  isn't  fair  to  keep  such  evidences  of 
a  man's  imbecility.  I'll  burn  them. 

MIRIAM.  Never!  I  won't  let  you.  We'll  take 
them  with  us. 

BILLY.  Not  on  your  life!  I'm  not  going  to 
live  in  one  room  with  all  my  dead  selves. 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  Billy,  do  you  mean  you  don't 
love  me  any  more? 

BILLY.  Of  course,  I  love  you.  But  you've  got 
to  stop  being  sentimental.  Look  here!  That 
fellow  was  so  mean,  and  I  was  so  afraid  he'd 
back  down  and  not  buy  the  place,  that  I  signed  a 
paper  promising  we'd  be  out  of  here  by  six  o'clock 
tonight. 

MIRIAM.  Well,  we  will  be.  I'm  all  ready  to 
start. 

BILLY.  You  look  ready!  What  are  you  doing 
with  that  apron  on? 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  take  it  off.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  it  now.  It  won't  go  in 
the  grip.  That  grip  is  so  full  it  wouldn't  hold  a 
postage  stamp  more.  I'll  just  have  to  carry  it 
over  my  arm. 

BILLY.    It's  the  dirtiest  thing  I  ever  saw. 

MIRIAM.  Do  you  know,  sweetheart,  one  thing 
I  have  always  admired  in  you  so  much  is  your 
neatness  ? 

BILLY.  My  dear  girl,  we  haven't  time  for  ad- 
238 


STANDING    MOVING 

miration  now.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
all  these  things?  I  tell  you  I  signed  a  contract 
before  a  notary  with  that  chap,  promising  we'd 
be  out  by  six  o'clock  tonight — that  means  us,  our 
belongings.  All  this  truck  is  yours. 

MIRIAM.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  the  things 
I  love  truck.  This  piano  was  my  grandmother's 
when  she  was  a  little  girl. 

BILLY.     It  sure  looks  it. 

MIRIAM.    It  is  a  dear  old  thing — I  love  it. 

BILLY.  I  suppose  you  do.  Women  are  queer. 
I  suppose  if  I  died  you'd  love  the  end  of  the 
shaving  soap  I'd  used.  The  fact  is  this  piano  is  a 
white  elephant  on  our  hands — a  regular  white 
elephant.  It's  cracked,  it  won't  stay  in  tune,  it's 
too  big  for  any  modern  house,  it  wouldn't  even 
make  good  kindling  wood.  It's  worse  than  a  dead 
battle-ship — we've  no  sea  to  drop  it  in.  Why 
didn't  you  get  rid  of  it? 

MIRIAM.  Well,  I  tried  to.  I  tried  to  sell  it  to 
everybody — all  the  music-stores  and  schools. 
All  the  neighbors— even  the  laundry  man. 

BILLY.    Why  didn't  you  give  it  away? 

MIRIAM.  I  tried  to  do  that,  too,  but  they  all 
refused  politely,  with  deep  thanks.  Even  the 
Apple-Faced-One  wouldn't,  though  he  took  every 
thing  else. 

BILLY.     Who's  he? 

MIRIAM.  He's  one  of  the  men  on  the  moving- 
van.  I  don't  know  his  name,  but  he  looks  like 
an  apple.  He's  Irish,  and  he's  been  so  kind. 
He's  taken  everything  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do  with — such  stacks  of  stuff. 

239 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

BILLY.     I  bet  he  has  [grimly]. 

MIRIAM.  He's  going  to  dispose  of  what  is  left 
in  the  kitchen. 

BILLY.  Do  you  mean  to  say  there's  anything 
left  in  the  kitchen? 

MIRIAM.     Just  a  few  things. 

[Billy  rushes  out  frantically  through  the  door  to 
the  right  and  in  a  second  tears  wildly  back 
again.] 

BILLY.  Miriam,  why  the  kitchen's  full !  Broken 
china,  broken  furniture,  old  clocks,  rolls  of  wall 
paper,  a  sewing-machine — 

MIRIAM.    It  won't  run,  no  one  can  make  it  run. 

BILLY.  — fruit  jars,  old  pictures,  burned  cook 
ing  utensils,  broken  crockery,  bottles,  bottles, 
bottles,  truck,  truck,  truck!  You  said  a  few 
things!  Good  Lord!  The  kitchen's  so  full  you 
can't  wade  through!  This  is  awful!  All  this 
stuff  here  and  all  that  stuff  there!  We  can't  get 
it  out  and  we  can't  get  out  of  it!  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  drowning! 

MIRIAM.  You  act  as  if  you  were.  I  never  saw 
you  so  hysterical. 

BILLY.  Hysterical?  Me?  Don't  be  insulting. 
Though  I  might  well  be  hysterical.  I'll  prob 
ably  be  sued.  It's  all  your  fault.  To  be  out  at 
six!  [Looking  at  his  watch.]  It's  three  minutes  to 
six  now!  I'll  be  sued!  Sued! 

MIRIAM.  If  you  were  as  tired  as  I  am  you 
wouldn't  mind.  I'd  be  glad  to  go  to  jail  and  sit 
down  to  rest  in  a  nice  quiet  cell. 

240 


STANDING    MOVING 

BILLY.  Oh,  don't  talk  like  an  idiot!  We've 
got  to  do  something.  What  are  we  going  to  do? 

MIRIAM.  The  Apple-Faced-One  is  going  to 
do  it. 

BILLY.    What  is  he  going  to  do?     When? 

MIRIAM.  Well,  he  tried  to  give  everything  to 
the  Salvation  Army,  but  they  wouldn't  have  it. 

BILLY.  I  don't  blame  them — I  don't  blame 
them. 

MIRIAM.  So  he's  got  a  friend  of  his,  an  old 
darky,  to  cart  them  away  this  evening  with  his 
mule.  I  had  to  pay  him  two  dollars  and  a  half. 
It  was  too  much,  but  I  was  reckless. 

BILLY.    It  would  be  cheap  at  fifty  dollars. 

MIRIAM.  Now  about  these  portraits,  Billy. 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  part  with  them. 

BILLY.  Fine!  We'll  burn  them.  It's  t'he  best 
thing  when  you  move  to  burn  your  ancestors  be 
hind  you. 

MIRIAM.    I'm  attached  to  them,  Billy. 

BILLY.  One  has  a  certain  connection  with  one's 
ancestors. 

MIRIAM.    I  know  they're  not  beautiful. 

BILLY  [holding  an  awful,  stern  old  gentleman  up 
to  view].  No? 

MIRIAM.  And  they  don't  look  at  all  like  the 
people. 

BILLY.     Portraits  never  do. 

MIRIAM.  But  I've  steeled  myself  to  part  with 
them. 

BILLY.  I've  often  wished  someone  would  steal 
them. 

MIRIAM.     Yet  I  don't  want  anybody  else  to 

18  241 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

get  hold  of  them  and  pass  them  off  as  their 
ancestors. 

BILLY.     Give  them  to  the  old  nigger. 

MIRIAM.  No,  the  Apple-Faced-One  is  going  to 
bury  them  in  the  back  yard,  only  they  have  to 
be  cut  up  first. 

BILLY.  Well,  I  won't  be  cut  up  by  that.  [Point 
ing  to  the  portrait  of  the  stern  old  gentleman.]  My, 
what  a  cut-up  he  is! 

MIRIAM.  I  got  out  the  old  carving  knife  to  do 
it,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to. 

BILLY.  Didn't  like  to  knife  your  ancestors? 
I'll  be  the  cat's-paw.  It's  the  job  of  a  son-in-law. 
[Takes  out  his  knife,  opens  it,  and  makes  for  the 
ancestors.] 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  Billy,  I  can't  stand  to  see  you 
do  it!  I'll  leave  a  note  asking  the  Apple-Faced- 
One  to.  I  have  every  confidence  in  him. 

BILLY.  Ha!  I  have  a  happy  thought.  Leave 
the  ancestors  to  him.  Leave  everything  to  him. 
Let  him  appropriate  the  ancestors.  It  isn't  every 
man  that  knows  his  own  father.  Why  shouldn't 
yours  be  his,  anyhow? 

MIRIAM.  Billy!  My  family  has  always  been 
moral. 

BILLY.  I  know.  It  seems  so — otherwise  they 
wouldn't  have  got  so  poor.  But  from  what  you 
tell  me,  the  Apple-Faced-One  is  getting  rich. 
He'll  soon  need  ancestors,  his  children  will  de 
mand  them,  and  so  we'll  just  provide  them  for 
him.  We'll  give  him  the  ancestors  and  clock  and 
piano  and  everything. 

MIRIAM.  My  grandfather  was  always  so  fond 
242 


STANDING    MOVING 

of  the  clock.  He  bought  it  when  he  was  a  young 
man.  He  always  called  it  Excelsior.  I  never 
knew  why,  but  it  seemed  romantic. 

BILLY.    It  runs  as  if  it  were  full  of  hay. 

MIRIAM.  Then  there's  the  cuckoo  clock  out  in 
the  hall,  too. 

BILLY.  We'll  give  them  all  to  the  Apple-Faced- 
One.  They'll  all  go  in  the  new  house  of  concrete 
blocks  he'll  be  building  soon.  And  he'll  tell  how 
his  grandfather  sat  in  that  old  chair  and  rocked 
till  he  fell  asleep  after  his  arduous  day  of  cutting 
coupons,  and  how  his  grandmother  played  soft 
old-fashioned  airs  on  this  old  piano — oh,  I've  got 
it  fixed  up — fine,  splendid,  bully!  Besides,  he 
can  stand  a  law-suit  better  than  I  can.  You  write 
a  note  giving  everything  that's  left  here  to  him, 
and  then  when  that  chap  sues  me  for  not  having 
all  the  goods  and  chattels  removed  from  the 
premises  I  can  prove  that  none  of  it  belonged  to 
me,  but  all  of  it  to  the  Apple-Faced-One.  By 
gum,  that's  the  ticket!  Then  let  that  infernal 
gazoo  bring  on  his  law-suit. 

MIRIAM.  Billy,  you  are  positively  ferocious  in 
your  attitude  to  George. 

BILLY.     Am  I?     Well,  I  wonder  why? 

MIRIAM  [shrugging  her  shoulders}.  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know. 

BILLY.  Look  here,  we  couldn't  sell  this  place, 
could  we?  We  tried  and  tried  and  tried,  and 
finally  Gecrge  came  along  and  wanted  to  buy  it. 
Oh,  no,  he  didn't  want  to  buy  it  exactly,  he  only 
was  willing  to  buy  it  in  his  supercilious  way  just 
to  do  you  a  favor. 

243 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MIRIAM.  How  absolutely  unjust  you  are  to 
George.  He  isn't  supercilious  at  all.  He  is  a 
perfect  lamb. 

BILLY.  Oh,  yes,  and  you  love  lambs,  don't 
you?  Miriam  had  a  little  lamb!  Bah!  You 
can't  deny  you  were  sweethearts  once.  And  he's 
been  carrying  on  with  you  now  again  right  here 
under  my  nose.  Coming  here  to  look  at  the 
house  in  my  absence! 

MIRIAM.  A  man  has  a  right  to  look  at  a  place 
he's  thinking  of  buying,  hasn't  he? 

BILLY.  As  if  he  didn't  know  all  about  it! 
Used  to  fairly  live  here,  didn't  he? 

MIRIAM.  That  was  several  years  ago,  and  he 
wasn't  thinking  of  buying  it  then. 

BILLY.  Oh,  no,  he  was  only  thinking  of  marry 
ing  it. 

MIRIAM.    Oh,  Billy,  you  married  it,  didn't  you? 

BILLY.  That's  it!  Twit  me  with  it!  I  didn't 
marry  you  for  your  house.  A  man  makes  a  big 
mistake  to  marry  a  girl  with  a  house  and  home. 

MIRIAM.  How  can  you  be  so  mean?  I  don't 
want  to  reproach  you.  I  never  have  reproached 
you.  But  when  we  were  married  you  said  you 
loved  every  stick  and  stone  that  was  mine,  and 
then  gradually  you  changed  and  got  to  hating  it. 
Of  course  I  know  you  haven't  any  feeling  of 
local  attachment. 

BILLY.  A  man  who  has  lived  in  twenty-nine 
different  boarding-houses  loses  his  sense  of  direc 
tion,  let  alone  local  attachment.  But  I  thought 
it  was  local  ^<?-tachment  you  were  trying  to  get. 
Didn't  you  want  to  get  rid  of  this  place? 

244 


STANDING    MOVING 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  yes,  I  felt  we  ought  to  sell  it— 
but  I  loved  it.  You  haven't  been  sympathetic, 
Billy.  I  don't  want  to  reproach  you,  but  it's  the 
home  of  my  ancestors,  my  great-grandfather  built 
the  house. 

BILLY.  And  a  regular  old  rattle-trap  it's  got 
to  be.  You  said  you  wanted  a  modern  apart 
ment  with  plumbing. 

MIRIAM.  He  came  here  and  built  it  when  there 
wasn't  another  house  within  a  half-mile. 

BILLY.  And  a  nice,  sweet-smelling  slum  the 
neighborhood  is  now. 

MIRIAM.  But  I  love  every  tree  and  shrub  and 
blade  of  grass.  I  love  the  church  steeples  rising 
out  of  the  smoke  in  the  city  below.  I  love  the 
old  house — every  window^  with  its  little  distort 
ing  panes  of  glass,  every  board  of  the  old  creak 
ing  floor.  My  grandmother  was  married  here 
and  my  mother  and  I.  I  love  all  the  old  dilap 
idated  furniture.  Maybe  I  wouldn't  have  cared 
so  if  you  had  been  more  sympathetic.  But  you 
haven't  helped  me  in  the  least.  All  you  did — I 
don't  want  to  reproach  you,  but  all  you  did  was 
to  say,  "Sell  everything  and  give  away  the  rest." 
And  then  you'd  put  on  your  hat  and  go.  That's 
what  a  man  does — he  puts  on  his  hat  and  goes. 
And  I  worked  like  a  slave  dismantling  a  house 
that  had  been  lived  in  by  the  same  family  seventy- 
five  years.  I  found  everything  under  the  sun, 
from  my  great-grandfather's  carpet  slippers  to 
my  uncle's  skeleton. 

BILLY  [shouting].     What! 

245 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MIRIAM.  Yes,  my  uncle  was  a  medical  student, 
and  he  had  a  skeleton  to  study. 

BILLY.     Oh! 

MIRIAM.  I  had  all  of  this  to  do  myself,  selling 
things  and  giving  them  away  and  paying  to  have 
them  carted  off  and  hunting  a  place  for  us  to  go 
to — and  all  you  did  was  to  put  on  your  hat  and 
go — after  I  had  got  your  breakfast  for  you. 

BILLY.     Didn't  I  order  the  moving  vans? 

MIRIAM.  All  I  could  find  was  one  room  for 
us  to  live  in — 

BILLY.  Fine  and  cozy  it  will  be,  after  this 
barn. 

MIRIAM,  —that  George  and  his  wife  have  been 
occupying,  and  I  wouldn't  have  got  that  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  George — 

BILLY.     Damn  George! 

MIRIAM.  And  all  the  dear  old  furniture  is 
stored.  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  stood  it!  I  don't 
[her  voice  breaking] — I  don't  know  how  I  can  stand 
moving! 

BILLY.  We're  not  the  only  people  who  are 
standing  moving.  All  the  world  is  on  its  feet 
and  don't  know  where  to  go.  [Miriam  bursts 
into  tears.]  There  now!  [Looking  at  his  watch.] 
Oh,  my  soul,  it's  after  six!  I'll  write  the  note  to 
the  Pear-Faced-One.  [Takes  out  his  note-book.] 
Pair-Faced — dual  personality — pair  of  faces — 
should  prefer  pair  of  aces.  [Starts  writing.] 

MIRIAM   [brokenly].     dpp/e-Faced-One. 

BILLY  [writing].  Know  all  men  by  these  pre 
sents  [gesturing  to  the  broken  chairs,  etc.]  that  I 
hereby  do  give,  present,  and  make  over — 

246 


STANDING    MOVING 

MIRIAM     We've  got  to  carry  all  these  other 
things  with  us. 

BILLY.  — all  my  possessions  left  in  this  house 
to — what's  his  name? 

MIRIAM.     I  don't  know. 

BILLY.  Well,  Pear-Faced-One  will  do.  [Con 
tinuing.]  To  the  Pear-faced — 

MIRIAM.     sfppte-Faced — 

BILLY.  y/p/>/<?-Faced-One.  Sign  it.  [Miriam 
signs.]  Leave  it  on  the  piano.  Most  obvious. 
They'll  run  into  the  piano  first.  Come  on.  [He 
picks  up  the  suit-case  in  one  hand,  dress-boxes  in 
the  other.  She  slides  the  bronze  statue  under  his 
arm  and  the  glass  vase  under  the  other  arm  and 
hangs  the  Chinese  lantern  from  his  neck.  She  picks 
up  the  box  tied  with  white  ribbon,  photographs, 
handbag,  grip,  lampshade,  etc.  He  ejaculates 
"Good  Lord!"  "Oh,  my  soul!"  "My  word!" 
and  finally  "Hell!"  as  she  loads  him  up.  He  drops 
the  suit-case  as  he  starts  toward  the  hall  to  open 
the  front  door,  in  imminent  danger  of  dropping 
the  bronze  ornament  and  vase.] 

MIRIAM.     Oh,  look  out! 

BILLY.  I  don't  want  to  look  out — 'fraid  I'll 
meet  that  damned  skunk! 

MIRIAM  [bursting  into  tears  again].  Dear 
George ! 

[They  squeeze  out.  The  old  clock  on  the  mantel 
piece  begins  to  strike.  Billy  gives  it  one  look, 
snaps  off  the  light,  and  slams  the  front  door 
behind  them  with  a  loud  bang.  In  a  few 
minutes,  as  soon  as  they  can  manage  to  change 
247 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

their  clothes  and  make-up  somewhat^  these  two 
return  as  the  other  couple.  While  they  are  out 
the  old  clock  goes  on  striking  slowly  and 
methodically  up  to  twenty-three^  or  as  long  as 
necessary.  The  new  couple  open  the  front  door 
into  the  hall  and  come  stumbling  into  the 
room  in  the  dark.] 

BERTHA.  They  might  at  least  have  left  the 
light  turned  on  so  we  could  see  our  way,  but  I 
suppose  we'll  have  to  pay  the  next  bill,  so  it's  as 
well  they  didn't.  Not  that  they'd  ever  inten 
tionally  do  anything  to  save  us  money. 

GEORGE.  I  ought  to  know  where  the  light  is, 
but  I  can't  remember. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  probably  you  turned  it  off  many 
a  time  to  spoon  in  the  dark. 

GEORGE  [sighing].  No,  she  never  gave  me  the 
chance. 

BERTHA.    Oh,  my  toe!    I've  run  into  something! 

GEORGE.  I'll  have  to  strike  a  match  to  find 
the  light. 

BERTHA.     Oh,  my  toe! 

GEORGE  [lights  a  match].  Ah,  here  it  is.  [Turns 
on  the  light.] 

BERTHA  [surveying  the  room].  Those  outrageous 
people!  Why,  they've  left  the  house  crammed 
full  of  their  old  broken-down  furniture!  That's 
what  I  ran  into.  [Pointing  to  the  piano.]  Oh,  my 
toe,  how  it  hurts!  [Standing  miserably  on  one 
foot.]  That  horrible  ugly  thing! 

GEORGE.    It's  really  a  lovely  old  piece. 
248 


STANDING    MOVING 

BERTHA.  Oh,  I  suppose  she  played  on  it  and 
sang  love  songs  to  you. 

GEORGE  [sentimentally].     It  was  her  mother's. 

BERTHA.  Looks  as  if  it  had  been  played  on 
by  some  old  witch. 

GEORGE  [mildly].  Her  mother  was  very  beau 
tiful. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  doubtless  you  thought  all  the 
family  were  beautiful.  There  are  some  specimens 
of  them.  Do  you  call  those  beautiful?  [Pointing 
to  the  portraits.]  Ghastly  old  wretches!  I  hate 
people  who  flaunt  their  family  portraits. 

GEORGE.  People  who  haven't  family  por 
traits  always  do  hate  those  who  have. 

BERTHA.    George!    Is  that  a  dig  at  me? 

GEORGE.  Well,  I  thought  you  said  you  wanted 
to  buy  some  to  go  in  the  new  old  house. 

BERTHA.  Well,  if  I  did  I  wouldn't  have  these 
— I'd  get  good-looking  ones. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  sure!  If  you're  going  to  buy 
ancestors,  buy  good-looking  ones  by  all  means. 

BERTHA.  You  are  getting  positively  sarcastic. 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  you.  It's  a  new 
turn  for  you. 

GEORGE.  Well,  never  mind.  Some  worms  just 
turn  round  and  round  and  don't  do  themselves 
any  good. 

BERTHA.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  If 
you  are  comparing  yourself  to  a  worm,  it's  dis 
gusting.  I  dislike  people  who  depreciate  them 
selves  constantly.  It's  a  form  of  egotism. 

GEORGE.  I  suppose  it  is.  I  find  I  have  a  great 
249 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

many  faults  I  never  dreamed  of  before.  Shall 
we  make  our  beds  here? 

BERTHA.  Here?  I  should  say  not.  Surely 
there  are  some  rooms  in  this  house  that  are  not 
all  cluttered  up.  I  couldn't  sleep  with  all  those 
things  staring  at  me.  Nightmares!  [Looking  at 
the  portraits.] 

GEORGE.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be 
visited  upon  the  children. 

BERTHA.  George!  You  don't  seem  to  realise 
the  enormity  of  the  situation.  Didn't  you  have 
them  sign  that  paper  I  told  you  to  fix  up,  making 
them  promise  they'd  have  everything  out  ? 

GEORGE.     Yes,  he  signed  it. 

BERTHA.  Then  we  can  sue  them.  You  must 
sue  them.  You'll  have  to  bring  suit  right  away. 

GEORGE.  All  right — all  right.  I'll  sue  them. 
But  let's  not  bring  suit  tonight.  I'm  dead  tired. 
Let's  go  to  bed  before  we  bring  suit. 

BERTHA.  I  can't  understand  you — taking 
everything  so  calmly. 

GEORGE.  Well,  somebody's  got  to  take  things 
calmly. 

BERTHA.  But  you  don't  have  to  be  absolutely 
sheepish.  You  just  lie  down  and  let  them  walk 
all  over  you — let  them  plague  you  and  torment 
you. 

GEORGE.  I  guess  it's  just  natural  for  a  sheep 
to  be  wooled. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  do  have  the  spirit  of  a  man,  not 
a  sheep!  Do  buck  up! 

GEORGE.    But — if  I'm  a  sheep  and  not  a  buck? 

BERTHA.  Oh,  do  brace  up — do  be  a  man! 
250 


STANDING    MOVING 

Don't  let  people  trample  on  you  and  cheat  you. 
Assert  yourself.  A  man  ought  to  take  his  place 
in  the  world  and — 

GEORGE  [murmuring].  If  you  are  going  to 
preach  a  sermon!  [Sits  down  on  the  edge  of  one 
of  the  broken  rocking-chairs.  It  gives  way  with  him 
and  he  falls  to  the  floor  and  remains  sitting  there.} 
Always  like  to  sit  down  when  I'm  moving. 

BERTHA.     — and  defy  everybody. 

GEORGE  [mildly,  from  the  floor}.  Of  course. 
I  do. 

BERTHA.  And  assert  yourself.  I  would  if  I 
were  a  man.  It's  really  a  pity  I  am  not  the  man. 
It's  a  pity  I  didn't  marry  you. 

GEORGE.     You  did,  my  dear. 

BERTHA.  Now  these  people  have  cheated  us. 
We  are  paying  more  for  the  place  than  it  is 
worth. 

GEORGE.    No,  I  would  hardly  say  that. 

BERTHA.  Anything  we  paid  would  be  more 
than  it  is  worth. 

GEORGE.  Well,  strictly  speaking,  we  aren't 
paying  for  it.  It's  the  building  association  that's 
paying.  Building  associations  believe  in  the 
home.  They  own  most  of  them. 

BERTHA.  George,  don't  be  so  silly.  The  fact 
is,  here  we  have  their  old  ramshackle  house  on 
our  hands — 

GEORGE.  Before,  you  said  it  would  be  a  home 
over  our  heads,  now  you  say  it's  on  our  hands. 

BERTHA.  — and  we've  got  to  decide  things  to 
do.  I  wish  we  were  well  out  of  it.  [George  reaches 
up  and  removes  his  haty  which  he  has  hung  on  a 

251 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

chair,  and  puts  it  on  again.]  We  were  idiots  to 
say  we'd  take  it. 

GEORGE.  But  you  said  it  was  so  picturesque 
and  it  would  be  such  fun  to  live  in  the  slums.  I 
guess  distance  lends  enchantment  to  slums. 

BERTHA.  That  was  when  I  was  living  cooped 
up  in  one  room. 

GEORGE.    Awfully  cozy  little  room. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  of  course  you  liked  it — you 
didn't  have  to  stay  in  it  all  day.  And  no  furnace 
for  you  to  look  after. 

GEORGE.    There's  no  furnace  here. 

BERTHA.     No  furnace? 

GEORGE.     No,  only  innumerable  fires. 

BERTHA.  And  you're  so  lazy  you'd  never  at 
tend  to  them  and  they'll  all  go  out,  and  I'll  just 
have  to  live  in  one  room  again.  But  that  isn't 
the  point  now.  The  point  is,  what  are  we  going 
to  do  with  all  these  things? 

GEORGE.  Seems  more  like  a  mess  than  a 
point,  don't  it? 

BERTHA.  I  wonder  if  the  whole  house  is 
cluttered.  Give  me  a  match.  [He  hands  her  a 
box  of  matches  and  she  starts  out  toward  the  kitchen, 
ejaculating:  "Oh,  my  toe!"  She  is  gone  a  few  mo 
ments.  George  looks  about  helplessly,  sees  the  an 
cestors,  takes  off  his  hat  and  bows  to  them  most 
elaborately.  Bertha  re-enters .] 

BERTHA.  The  kitchen  is  piled  with  junk! 
Awful,  outrageous  truck!  Sewing-machines,  bot 
tles,  broken  tables,  broken  china,  old  magazines, 
bottles.  I  couldn't  get  through  to  the  range  or 

252 


STANDING    MOVING 

the  sink.  It's  a  blessing  we  didn't  plan  to  get 
breakfast  here. 

GEORGE  [resignedly].  Well,  it's  an  old  house, 
you  know.  It  must  have  been  very  full  of  stuff. 
And  you  wanted  to  buy  it,  you  know.  You  said 
you  were  just  crazy  for  an  old  house. 

BERTHA.  That's  right!  Blame  it  all  on  me! 
Blame  me  for  everything! 

GEORGE.  Oh,  no,  my  dear,  I  ain't  blaming 
you — I — 

BERTHA.  Yes,  you  are.  You  lay  the  blame 
for  everything  on  me.  You'll  be  telling  every 
body  I  made  you  buy  it. 

GEORGE  [elaborately].  Certainly  not,  my  dear. 
It  was  all  my  fault.  I  am  entirely  to  blame. 
Everybody  knows  I  am  so  restless.  Couldn't 
stay  and  be  content  in  the  little  room. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  content,  content!  You're  al 
ways  content.  You'd  be  content  to  live  in  a  dog 
house  or  a  chicken-coop.  If  all  people  were  like 
you  there  would  be  no  change,  no  movement, 
no  progress — the  world  wouldn't  move. 

GEORGE.  Well,  I  guess  the  world  ain't  like 
me — 

BERTHA.     Don't  be  ungrammatical! 

GEORGE.  Thank  you,  my  dear — I  meant  to 
say  the  world  is  apparently  unlike  me,  for  it's  all 
moving.  I  met  six  vans  this  afternoon.  Most  of 
'em  have  to  move  and  no  place  to  move  to.  As 
for  me,  I  never  feel  the  need  of  change  except 
when  I  have  to  pay  my  car-fare.  [Grinning 
sheepishly.] 

BERTHA.    How  can  you  be  so  trivial? 

253 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

GEORGE.  Well,  change  is  a  trifling  matter, 
ain't — is  it  not? 

BERTHA.     How  can  you  joke? 

GEORGE.  I  always  believe  in  putting  the  best 
joke  foremost.  Now,  honest,  Bertha,  this  change 
is  a  great  joke  on  us,  ain't  it? 

BERTHA.    Don't  you  dare  say  "ain't"  again! 

GEORGE.     I  won't. 

BERTHA.  And,  really,  it's  unsympathetic  in 
you  to  try  to  be  funny  when  you  see  I  am  in  such 
distress. 

GEORGE.  All  right,  I'll  be  in  distress,  too. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  sensible  for  us  to 
dis-dress  and  go  to  bed? 

BERTHA.  If  you  keep  up  that  foolishness  I'll 
never  forgive  you. 

GEORGE.  I  guess  you  never  will  anyhow. 
[Sighing  heavily.] 

BERTHA.  We'll  have  to  make  some  sort  of 
bed.  It  is  an  outrage  for  those  people  to  turn 
us  out  of  our  room.  I  never  dreamed  that  we 
couldn't  stay  there  tonight  and  come  here  after 
our  bed  was  put  up  tomorrow. 

GEORGE.    Well,  they  got  the  room,  you  know. 

BERTHA.  They  never  would  have  got  it  if 
you  hadn't  told  them  about  it. 

GEORGE.    The  poor  souls  hadn't  anywhere  to 

g°- 

BERTHA.     You  are  terribly  sympathetic  with 

them. 

GEORGE.  It's  a  funny  thing  that  the  people 
who  sold  us  this  house  should  be  taking  our 
room  at  the  boarding-house. 

254 


STANDING    MOVING 

BERTHA.    Are'nt  you  ever  going  to  get  up? 

GEORGE.  Sure,  I  am.  [He  gets  up  slowly  and 
stands  looking  at  her.] 

BERTHA.  Well,  aren't  you  going  to  do  any 
thing  about  this  awful  mess? 

GEORGE.  Sure,  my  dear.  We'll  make  the  bed 
on  top  of  the  piano. 

BERTHA.  Nonsense,  we'll  make  it  on  the 
floor. 

GEORGE.    Of  course,  the  floor  is  handier,  but — 

BERTHA.     But  what? 

GEORGE.  I  hate  to  suggest  it,  but  in  an  old 
house  like  this  there  are  apt  to  be — you  know — 
mice  and  roaches  and  things. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  suppose  there 
are!  But  I  never  can  climb  on  top  of  the  piano. 

GEORGE.     I'll  lift  you  up. 

BERTHA.  And  I'd  be  sure  to  fall  off  in  the 
night. 

GEORGE.  I  could  tie  you  on.  Or  we  could  tie 
ourselves  together.  Blessed  be  the  tie  that  binds. 

BERTHA.     You're  joking  again. 

GEORGE.  No,  ma'am,  I'll  never  make  another 
joke,  I  only  want  to  make  a  bed.  I  don't  want 
to  joke,  I  want  to  lie — down  and  sleep. 

BERTHA.  Besides,  if  we  fell  off  together  and 
were  killed,  it  would  seem  like  a  suicide  pact. 

GEORGE.  Pact  suicide  in  a  packed  house.  I 
couldn't  help  that,  honest!  It  was  accidental — 
fell  off,  you  know,  like  us — pat! 

BERTHA  [walking  to  the  piano].  My  toe  hurts 
from  the — 

GEORGE  [grinning  benignly],    /wpact! 

255 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

BERTHA,  —with  that  awful  thing.  What  is 
this? 

GEORGE.    As  they  say  in  the  movies. 

BERTHA.      I    have    found    a    note.      [Reads.] 
"Know   all   men    by   these   presents    that   I    do 
hereby  give,  present,  and  make  over  all  my  pos 
sessions  left  in  this  house  to  the  Apple-Faced-One. 
"Miriam  Oliver, 
"William  Oliver,  her  husband." 
Why,  this  reads  like  a  legal  document,  though 
it's  written  in  pencil. 

GEORGE.     It's  a  joke. 

BERTHA.     But  it  reads  like  a  legal  document. 

GEORGE.  It's  probably  meant  to  be.  Legal 
documents  are  always  jokes — practical  jokes. 

BERTHA.     But  what  does  it  mean? 

GEORGE.     I  hate  to  think. 

BERTHA  [reading  the  paper  again].  Why  it 
must  mean — it  does  mean  that  she  is  giving  all 
this  awful  truck  to — the  Apple-Faced-One — that 
means  you. 

GEORGE.  I  guess  it  does.  Funny,  ain't  it? — 
I  mean  it's  funny. 

BERTHA.  No,  it's  not  funny  at  all.  It's  insult 
ing.  And  it's  outrageous.  We  won't  accept  their 
magnificent  gift. 

GEORGE.  Well,  I  don't  know  how  we  are  going 
to  get  out  of  it.  Gifts  are  a  good  deal  like  the 
rain  that  falleth  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust, 
and  you  canst  not  tell  whither  they  cometh  nor 
whence  they  goeth. 

BERTHA.  We  will  not  accept  their  gift.  We 
will  bring  suit. 

256 


STANDING    MOVING 

GEORGE.  What!  Bring  another  suit  again  so 
soon  after  getting  the  first  one  settled? 

BERTHA.  Don't  you  object  to  being  called  the 
Apple-Faced-One  by  your  old  sweetheart? 

GEORGE.  I  guess  I  don't  like  it,  but  what's 
the  use  of  objecting?  "It  don't  do  a  rabbit  a 
bit  of  good  to  have  a  mean  disposition,"  as  the 
old  saying  is.  Anyhow,  I  don't  believe  she 
meant  it. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  I  suppose  you  think  she's  still 
in  love  with  you. 

GEORGE.    No,  I  guess  she  never  was.     [Sighing.] 

BERTHA.  I  believe  you  are  still  in  love  with 
her.  I  have  always  thought  you  were  in  love 
with  her.  Though  what  on  earth  you  ever  saw 
in  her  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  [The  telephone 
rings.]  Dear  me,  I  wonder  who  could  be  calling 
us  up  here  already? 

GEORGE.  It's  probably  for  the  other  folks. 
[He  starts  toward  the  telephone,  but  she  intercepts 
him  and  takes  up  the  receiver.] 

BERTHA.  Hello!  No,  this  is  not  Mrs.  Oliver. 
This  is  Mrs.  Kelly,  the  new  owner. — No,  I  don't 
know  where  Mrs.  Oliver  is. — What  do  you  want? 
• — It's  off",  you  say,  what's  off? — Well,  I  should 
like  to  know  why  ? — The  deal  is  off? — Why  ?  I  am 
afraid  I  do  not  understand. — That  is  very  strange. 
Very  strange,  indeed.  I  should  like  to  know  what 
right  they  had  to  go  ahead  and  sell  a  place  if 
they  couldn't  sell  it. — This  is  most  extraordinary. 
[In  a  tone  of  the  most  frigid  and  official  politeness^ 
WTill  you  kindly  hold  the  line  a  moment  till  I 

17  257 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

tell  my  husband?  [Turning  to  George.]  He  says 
it's  all  off,  the  deal  is  off — he  says — 

GEORGE.     Who  says? 

BERTHA.  The  real  estate  man.  He  says  it 
isn't  a  real  sale.  It's  all  off.  They  haven't  sold 
the  place  and  we  haven't  bought  it. 

GEORGE.  That  seems  a  little  exaggerated. 
But  why? 

BERTHA.  The  title  isn't  clear.  There's  an 
uncle  somebody  has  a  life  interest,  and  he's  just 
sent  word  that  he  won't  sign  the  papers. 

GEORGE.  Fine!  Then  we  can  go  back  to  the 
cozy  little  room! 

BERTHA.  But  it  is  an  outrage!  To  be  turned 
out  of  our  house  and  home! 

GEORGE.  You  just  said  you  wanted  to  get  rid 
of  it. 

BERTHA.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  We  bought  it, 
therefore  it  is  ours. 

GEORGE.  Oh,  I  made  a  mistake.  Sorry. 
Thought  you'd  be  relieved. 

BERTHA.  Relieved  to  have  no  roof  over  my 
head?  Well,  you  are  smart!  He's  talking  again. 
[Speaking  into  the  telephone.]  What  is  it? — Yes, 
I've  told  my  husband.  He's  absolutely  amazed. 
[George  throws  up  his  head  and  twists  his  mouth  to 
one  side.]  He  says  it  is  a  perfect  outrage.  He 
says  he  will  sue  those  people. 

GEORGE.    The  third  law-suit. 

BERTHA.  Yes,  I  understand  perfectly.  The 
deal  is  off.  And  if  we  cannot  have  this  place  we 
will  not  stay  in  it  another  minute.  We  will  not 
stay  here  even  tonight  after  such  treatment.  We 

258 


STANDING   MOVING 

will  immediately  go  back  to  our  room  in  the 
boarding-house,  and  you  can  telephone  those 
people  at  once — they  are  in  our  room — that  they 
will  have  to  get  out,  for  we  are  coming  back. — 
Yes,  you  may  look  for  another  house  for  us.  But 
we  will  not  promise  to  take  it,  after  the  way  you 
have  deceived  us.  My  husband  is  furiously  en 
raged,  and  you  will  find  him  very  hard  and  stiff 
to  deal  with.  He's  going  to  bring  suit  at  once.— 
I  don't  know  about  buying  again.  We  may  have 
other  plans.  Goodbye.  [She  hangs  up  the  re 
ceiver.]  He  says  she  has  an  uncle  Jim  who  has  a 
life  interest  in  the  place.  He's  very  rich  and  she's 
his  heir,  and  they  never  dreamed  he  wouldn't 
sign,  but  it  seems  he  wants  her  to  keep  the  place, 
so  he  won't  give  his  consent  to  the  sale,  and  it's 
all  off  for  good.  That  miserable  real  estate  man 
—I  don't  know  but  what  we  ought  to  sue  him, 
too. 

GEORGE.     Law-suit  number  four. 

BERTHA.  He  wants  to  sell  us  another  house, 
but  I  have  a  different  plan.  We're  going  to  build 
a  house. 

GEORGE.     Oh,  Lord! 

BERTHA.  Now  don't  take  it  that  way.  You'll 
enjoy  it.  You're  going  to  turn  carpenter  and 
build  cupboard  shelves  and  put  up  screen  doors 
and  stain  floors  and  learn  to  be  so  handy  with 
tools.  It  will  be  fun. 

GEORGE.  I  never  could  drive  a  nail  without 
smashing  my  thumb. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  I  am  so  cold  in  this  barn.  It 
will  be  nice  to  get  back  to  a  steam-heated  room. 

259 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

GEORGE.     Suits  me. 

BERTHA.  Come,  we  must  go.  [Buttons  her 
coat.  He  picks  up  the  two  suit-cases  and  grip. 
She  gathers  up  the  blankets  and  other  things.] 
I  hope  they  freeze  when  they  get  back  to  this. 
They'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes.  You  go  ahead 
and  I'll  turn  out  the  light.  I  hope  she  runs  into 
the  piano.  [She  snaps  off  the  light.}  George,  we're 
going  to  have  steam  heat  in  our  new  bungalow. 

[They  go  out,  and  the  stage  is  dark  long  enough 
for  them  to  change  their  clothes  and  make  up 
and  return  as  the  first  couple.  While  they  are 
gone  the  cuckoo  clock  in  the  hall  strikes  twelve. 
The  door  is  heard  opening  and  the  first  couple 
enters.  Billy  snaps  on  the  light.  His  face  is 
dark  with  ferocious  gloom,  Miriam's  is  set 
with  patient  resignation.  Billy  takes  off  his 
hat,  looks  around  for  a  place  to  hang  it,  and 
finally  deposits  it  on  the  mantelpiece,  removes 
his  muffler,  folding  it  carefully  and  placing  it 
on  top  of  the  hat.  He  takes  off  his  overcoat 
and  lays  it  on  top  of  the  piano.  Miriam 
meanwhile  watches  him  in  silent  perturbation .} 

MIRIAM.  I  don't  want  to  reproach  you,  but 
you  are  so  melancholy.  [Billy  gives  her  a  fiery, 
scorching  look.}  It  is  so  depressing  to  have  you 
this  way.  You  haven't  said  a  word  all  the  way 
home. 

BILLY.  Home!  [through  his  teeth,  with  a  wither 
ing  glance  about  the  room.} 

MIRIAM.  You  didn't  like  the  room  at  the  board 
ing-house,  so  I  thought  you  might  be  glad  to  get 

260 


STANDING    MOVING 

back  home.     You  said  the  room  there  was  like 
living  in  a  chicken-coop,  so  I  thought — 

BILLY.  Room?  Not  even  as  big  as  a  chicken- 
coop!  More  like  living  in  a  shredded-wheat 
carton,  hearing  people  talk  all  the  time  on  one 
side  of  the  wall  and  water  running  in  the  bath 
room  all  the  time  on  the  other  side.  It's  positively 
indecent  the  way  people  live  nowadays,  cooped 
up  in  little  compartments  like  so  many  boxes  of 
eggs  on  a  grocery  shelf.  It's  indecent,  outrageous, 
horrible ! 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  go  right  on!  I'm  so  glad  you've 
broken  your  silence  at  last. 

BILLY.  Modern  life  is  commercialized  discom 
fort.  Street-cars  are  packed  like  sardine  boxes, 
people  climb  round  and  round  on  top  of  each 
other  in  stores  and  on  the  street  like  bees  in  a 
hive,  and  when  they  go  home  at  night  they're 
jammed  away  in  so  many  little  compartments 
like  so  many  cases  of  compressed  chicken  on  a 
grocery  shelf. 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  please  go  right  on,  dear.  I 
don't  mind  it  so  much  when  you  rant  and  rave, 
but  it  is  frightful  when  you  preserve  that  awful 
silence. 

BILLY.  Rant  and  rave?  Thank  you!  I  am 
not  ranting  and  raving  in  the  least.  I  am  abso 
lutely  self-possessed.  I  am  only  voicing  in  a 
perfectly  cool  and  collected  manner  certain  well- 
known,  but  unacknowledged  sociological  facts. 
The  way  people  live  on  top  of  each  other  is  not 
only  frightful  socially  and  morally,  but  it  is  de 
generating  biologically  and  it  is  unhygienic. 

261 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

MIRIAM.  Well,  it's  nice  to  get  back  home, 
then,  isn't  it?  Where  we  have  plenty  of  room 
and  air. 

BILLY.  Room  and  air?  I  should  say  so! 
Has  a  man  got  to  choose  between  a  barn  and  a 
pepper-box  to  live  in? 

MIRIAM.  I  felt  so  hopeful  that  if  you  really 
had  the  experience  of  moving — because  one  always 
moves  into  something  worse — that  you  would  be 
better  contented  at  home  again. 

BILLY.  Home?  Bah!  I  tell  you  if  we've  got 
to  live  here,  and  your  Uncle  Jim  doesn't  let  us 
sell  this  place,  he's  got  to  come  across  and  make 
it  decent. 

MIRIAM.     I  feel  sure  he  will,  dear. 

BILLY.  I  feel  sure  he  won't.  He's  probably  as 
stingy  as  the  rest  of  the  family. 

MIRIAM.  Billy!  How  can  you?  I  don't  want 
to  reproach  you,  but  you  are  so  hard  on  my 
relatives. 

BILLY.  Well,  if  he  hadn't  interfered — and 
Lord  knows  why  he  did,  for  it  isn't  his  and  he 
never  will  get  anything  out  of  it — but  if  he  hadn't 
interfered,  we'd  be  well  rid  of  it  by  now. 

MIRIAM  [irrelevantly].  I  guess  we'll  have  to 
sleep  on  top  of  the  piano. 

BILLY.  Might  make  it  soft  with  a  mattress  of 
love-letters.  {Pointing  to  the  paper-boxes.] 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  here  is  the  note  to  the  Apple- 
Faced-One.  I'm  so  glad  he  didn't  get  hold  of  it 
— then  he'd  have  all  those  things. 

BILLY.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going 
to  keep  all  this  stuff  now? 

262 


STANDING    MOVING 

MIRIAM.  Everything  comes  in  handy  if  you 
keep  it  long  enough.  I'm  sorry  I  gave  him  the 
wash-boiler  and  the  step-ladder  and  the  coal- 
shovel  and  the  carpet-sweeper  and  the  mop  and 
the  dust-pan  and  the  iron  skillet  and  the — 

BILLY.  I'm  not — all  those  ancient  implements 
— now  we  can  get  something  new — you  never 
would  have  otherwise. 

MIRIAM.  I  wonder  if  they — the  new  owners— 
really  were  here.  It  must  have  seemed  queer  to 
George  to  be  here  with  his  wife. 

GEORGE.  I  daresay.  Confound  him!  Got  the 
house  at  last  but  not  the  same  girl.  Must  seem 
queer  to  you,  too.  Well,  maybe  you'd  like  to 
trade  husbands  even  yet. 

MIRIAM.  Billy,  I  don't  want  to  reproach  you, 
but  I  must  say  I  don't  think  George  would  ever 
have  talked  to  me  the  way  you  do. 

BILLY.  Oh,  Lord,  no!  He  wouldn't.  Good- 
natured  cuss  and  all  that.  And  I  suppose  you 
mean  to  infer  that  I'm  a  beast.  Hum! 

MIRIAM.     George  is  so  kind-hearted. 

BILLY.  Maybe  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me, 
maybe  you  want  to  get  a  divorce.  Well,  go 
ahead!  I'm  done.  Having  that  dunderheaded 
fool  held  up  to  me  as  a  paragon  and  model  of  all 
that  a  husband  ought  to  be.  It's  too  much  for 
any  man  to  stand.  I'm  done.  I'm  through. 

MIRIAM.  Oh,  Billy!  [Her  voice  high-pitched 
up  in  her  nose  and  breaking^ 

BILLY.  Confounded  ass  preferred  to  me! 
[Miriam  breaks  into  wild  weeping.]  It's  more  than 

263 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

a  self-respecting  man  can  bear.     [Miriam  weeps 
loudly.]    Damned  idiot  preferred  to  me. 

MIRIAM.    Oh! 

BILLY  [stalking  about  the  room].  Too  much  to 
stand!  Standing  moving.  Standing  everything. 
[Continues  to  stalk  about,  glancing  at  her  as  she 
sobs  wildly.]  Oh,  stop  that  crying!  [Miriam  wails 
more  loudly.]  What's  the  use  of  weeping  ?  [Miriam 
wails  more  loudly  at  each  word  from  him.]  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  cry. 

MIRIAM.    Oh! 

BILLY.  Oh,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  sob  that 
way. 

MIRIAM.     Oh! 

BILLY.    For  heaven's  sake  stop  crying. 

MIRIAM.     How — can — I — help — it — when — 

BILLY  [coming  to  her  and  standing  in  front  of 
her].  You  know  I  can't  stand  to  see  you  cry. 

MIRIAM  [puts  her  head  on  his  shoulder].  Well — 
then — why  do — you — 

BILLY.  Well,  then,  I  didn't  mean  to.  I — well, 
I'm  sorry.  [Puts  his  arms  round  her.  They  are 
standing  by  the  piano  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
He  continues  to  pet  and  fondle  her.] 

MIRIAM.  Don't  you  know  I  never  cared  about 
anybody  but  you? 

BILLY.  And  you  don't  think,  then,  that  he's 
a  much  nicer  chap  than  me? 

MIRIAM.  Nobody  is  nicer  than  you.  Nobody 
could  be  so  charming  and  lovely  and  dear. 

BILLY,  [lifting  her  to  the  top  of  the  piano].  I 
speak  without  thinking.  I've  got  such  an  infernal 
bad  temper. 

264 


STANDING    MOVING 

MIRIAM.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  I  won't  let 
you  malign  yourself  that  way.  You  have  the 
sweetest  disposition  of  any  man  I  ever  knew. 

BILLY.     Do  you  really  think  so? 

MIRIAM.    Do  I?    [Smiling  sweetly.}    /'//say  so! 

BILLY.  Standing  moving  is  bad  enough,  but 
standing  my  wife's  tears  is  more  than  I  can 
stand.  [Jumps  up  on  the  piano  beside  her  and 
puts  his  arm  round  her.] 

MIRIAM.  Darling,  I  don't  care  what  you  say 
about  the  family  and  the  old  house.  If  you  just 
love  me. 

BILLY.  If  you'll  only  promise  not  to  cry,  I'll 
promise  never  to  move  from  this  spot  while  I 
live.  [Kicking  his  foot  against  the  old  piano.] 

\A  loud  pounding  is  heard  in  the  rear.] 

MIRIAM.  Oh  dear,  that  must  be  the  Apple- 
Faced-One  and  the  old  darky  and  the  mule! 

[CURTAIN.] 


265 


SHORT   PLAYS 

BY  MARY  MAcMILLAN 


To  fill  a  long-felt  want.  All  have  been  successfully  pre 
sented.  Suitable  for  Women's  Clubs,  Girls'  Schools,  etc. 
While  elaborate  enough  for  big  presentation,  they  may  be 
given  very  simply. 

This  volume  contains  ten  Plays: 

The  Shadowed  Star  has  six  women,  one  boy;  may  all  be  taken 
by  women.  Time,  present.  Scene,  in  a  tenement  Christmas 
Eve.  One  act,  45  minutes. 

The  Ring.  Costume  play.  Time,  days  of  Shakespeare.  Three 
women,  seven  men.  Scene,  interior.  One  act,  45  minutes. 

The  Rose.  One  woman,  two  men.  Time,  Elizabethan.  Scene, 
castle  interior.  One  act,  30  minutes.  Song  introduced. 

Luck.  Four  short  acts.  Time,  present.  Interior  scene. 
Seven  women,  six  men.  Comedy. 

Entre'  Acte.  Costume  play.  Time,  present.  Scene,  interior. 
Two  women,  one  man.  Contains  a  song.  One  act. 

A  Woman's  a  Woman  for  A'  That.  Time,  present.  Interior 
scene.  One  act,  45  minutes.  Three  women,  two  men.  Comedy. 

A  Fan  and  Two  Candlesticks.  Costume  play,  Colonial  times. 
Scene,  interior.  Two  men,  one  woman.  One  act,  20  to  30 
minutes.  Written  in  rhymed  couplets. 

A  Modern  Masque.  Time,  present.  Scene,  outdoors.  Fan 
tastic,  written  in  prose  and  verse.  Costume  play  in  one  act, 
30  minutes  or  more.  Four  women,  three  men. 

The  Futurists.  One-act  farce,  of  the  first  woman's  club  of  the 
early  eighties.  Interior.  Forty  five  minutes.  Eight  women. 

The  Gate  of  Wishes.  One-act  fantasy.  Outdoors.  Half  hour. 
One  girl,  one  man.  Singing  voices  of  fairies. 

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MORE   SHORT  PLAYS 

BY  MARY  MAcMILLAN 

Plays  that  act  well  may  read  well.  Miss  MacMillan's 
Plays  are  good  reading.  Nor  is  literary  excellence  a  detriment 
to  dramatic  performance. 

This  volume  contains  eight  Plays: 

His  Second  Girl.  One-act  comedy,  just  before  the  Civil  War. 
Interior,  45  minutes.  Three  women,  three  men. 

At  the  Church  Door.  Fantastic  farce,  one  act,  20  to  30  minutes. 
Interior.  Present.  Two  women,  two  men. 

Honey.  Four  short  acts.  Present,  in  the  southern  mountains. 
Same  interior  cabin  scene  throughout.  Three  women,  one 
man,  two  girls. 

The  Dress  Rehearsal  of  Hamlet.  One-act  costume  farce. 
Present.  Interior.  Forty-five  minutes.  Ten  women  taking 
men's  parts. 

The  Pioneers.  Five  very  short  acts.  1791  in  Middle-West. 
Interior.  Four  men,  five  women,  five  children,  five  Indians. 

In  Mendelesia,  Part  I.  Costume  play,  Middle  Ages.  Interior. 
Thirty  minutes  or  more.  Four  women,  one  man-servant. 

In  Mendelesia,  Part  II.  Modern  realism  of  same  plot.  One 
act.  Present.  Interior.  Thirty  minutes.  Four  women,  one 
maid-servant. 

The  Dryad.  Fantasy  in  free  verse,  one  act.  Thirty  minutes. 
Outdoors.  Two  women,  one  man.  Present. 

These  plays,  as  well  as  SHORT  PLAYS,  have  been  pre 
sented  by  clubs  and  schools  in  Boston,  New  York,  Buffalo, 
Detroit,  Cleveland,  New  Orleans,  San  Francisco,  etc.,  and  by 
the  Portmanteau  Theatre,  the  Chicago  Art  Institute  Theatre, 
the  Denver  Little  Art  Theatre,  at  Carmel-by-the-Sea  in 
California,  etc. 

Handsomely  bound  and  uniform  with  S.  fcf  K.  Dramatic  Series. 
I2mo.     Cloth.     Net,  $2.50;  K"  Turkey  Morocco,  Net,  $8.50. 

STEWART   &   KIDD    COMPANY 

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Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays 

Edited  by 
FRANK  SHAY  and  PIERRE  LOVING 

THIS  volume  contains  FIFTY  REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 
of  the  MODERN  THEATER,  chosen  from  the  dramatic  works  of  con 
temporary  writers  all  over  the  world  and  is  the  second  volume  in  the 
Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies,  the  first  being  European  Theories  of  the 
Drama,  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  which  has  been  so  enthusiastically  received. 

The  editors  have  scrupulously  sifted  countless  plays  and  have  selected  the 
best  available  in  English.  One-half  the  plays  have  never  before  been  pub 
lished  in  book  form;  thirty-one  are  no  longer  available  in  any  other  edition. 
The  work  satisfies  a  long-felt  want  for  a  handy  collection  of  the  choicest 
plays  produced  by  the  art  theaters  all  over  the  world.  It  is  a  complete  reper 
tory  for  a  little  theater,  a  volume  for  the  study  of  the  modern  drama,  a  rep 
resentative  collection  of  the  world's  best  short  plays. 

CONTENTS 


AUSTRIA 

Schnitzler    (Arthur) — Literature 
BELGIUM 

Maeterlinck    (Maurice) — The    Intruder 
BOLIVIA      . 

More  (Federico) — Interlude 
DENMARK 

Wied   (Gustave) — Autumn  Fires 
FRANCE 

Ancey  (George) — M.  Larablin 

Porto-  Riche  (Georges)  —  Francoise's  Luck 
GERMANY 

Ettinger  (Karl) — Altruism 

von  Hofmannsthal  (Hugo) — Madonna  Dia- 
nora 

Wedekind  (Frank) — The  Tenor 
GREAT   BRITAIN 

Bennett    (Arnold) — A  Good  Woman 

Calderon  (George) — The  Little  Stone  House 

Cannan  (Gilbert) — Mary's  Wedding 

Dowson  (Ernest) — The  Pierrot  of  the  Min 
ute. 

Ellis    (Mrs.    Havelock) — The    Subjection 
of  Kezia 

Hankin  (St.  John) — The  Constant  Lover 
INDIA 

Mukerji  (Dhan  Gopal) — The  Judgment  of 

Indra 
IRELAND 

Gregory   (Lady) — The  Workhouse  Ward 
HOLLAND 

Speenhoff  (J.  H.) — Louise 
HUNGARY 

Biro    (Lajos) — The   Grandmother 
ITALY 

Giocosa  (Giuseppe) — The  Rights  of  the  Soul 
RUSSIA 

Andreyev  (Leonid) — Love  of  One's  Neigh 
bor 

Tchekoff  (Anton) — The  Boor 


SPAIN 

Benevente   (Jacinto) — His  Widow's  Hus 
band 
Quinteros  (Serafina  and  Joaquin  Alverez) 

— A  Sunny  Morning 
SWEDEN 

Strindberg  (August)— The  Creditor 
UNITED  STATES 

Beach  (Lewis) — Brothers 
Cowan  (Sada) — In  the  Morgue 
Crocker  (Bosworth) — The  Baby  Carriage 
Cronyn  (George  W.) — A  Death  in  Fever 

Flat 
Davies   (Mary  Carolyn) — The  Slave  with 

Two  Faces 

Day  (Frederick  L.) — The  Slump 
Planner   (Hildegard) — Mansions 
Glaspell    (Susan) — Trifles 
Gerstenberg   (Alice) — The  Pot  Boiler 
Helbura  (Theresa)— Enter  the  Hero 
Hudson   (Holland)— The  Shepherd  in  the 

Distance 

Kemp    (Harry) — Boccaccio's  Untold  Tale 
Langner    (Lawrence) — Another   Way  Out 
MacMillan    (Mary) — The  Shadowed  Star 
Millay  (Edna  St.  Vincent) — Aria  da  Capo 
Moeller    (Philip) — Helena's  Husband 
O'Neill  (Eugene)— He 
Stevens    (Thomas   Wood) — The    Nursery 

Maid  of  Heaven 
Stevens  (Wallace) — Three  Travelers  Watch 

a  Sunrise 

Tompkins  (Frank  G.) — Sham 
Walker  (Stuart) — The  Medicine  Show 
Wellman  (Rita) — For  All  Time 
Wilde  (Percival)— The  Finger  of  God 
YIDDISH 

Ash  (Sholom) — Night 

Pinski  (David) — Forgotten  Souls 


Large  8vo,  585  pages.     Net,  $5.00 


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Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

CONTEMPORARY  ONE-ACT  PLAYS  OF 
AMERICAN 

Edited  by  FRANK  SHAY 

'T'HIS  volume  represents  a  careful  and  intelligent  selection  of 
1  the  best  One-act  Plays  written  by  Americans  and  produced 
by  the  Little  Theatres  in  America  during  the  season  of  IQZI. 
They  are  representative  of  the  best  work  of  writers  in  this  field 
and  show  the  high  level  to  which  the  art  theatre  has  risen  in 
America. 

The  editor  has  brought  to  his  task  a  love  of  the  theatre  and 
a  knowledge  of  what  is  best  through  long  association  with  the 
leading  producing  groups. 

The  volume  contains  the  repertoires  of  the  leading  Little 
Theatres,  together  with  bibliographies  of  published  plays  and 
books  on  the  theatre  issued  since  January,  1920, 

Aside  from  its  individual  importance,  the  volume,  together 
with  Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays,  will  make  up  the 
most  important  collection  of  short  plays  published. 

In  the  Book  are 
the  following  Plays  by  the  following  Authors 

Mirage George  M.  P.  Baird 

Napoleon's  Barber ' Arthur  Caesar 

Goat  Alley Ernest  Howard  Culbertson 

Sweet  and  Twenty Floyd  Dell 

Tickless  Time Susan  Glaspell  and  George  Cram  Cook 

The  Hero  of  Santa  Maria ....  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman  and 

Ben  Hecht 

All  Gummed  Up Harry  Wagstaff  Gribble 

Thompson's  Luck Harry  Greenwood  Grover 

Fata  Deorum Carl  W.  Guske 

Pearl  of  Dawn Holland  Hudson 

Finders-Keepers George  Kelly 

Solomon's  Song Harry  Kemp 

Matinata Lawrence  Langner 

The  Conflict Clarice  Vallette  McCauley 

Two  Slatterns  and  a  King Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

Thursday  Evening Christopher  Morley 

The  Dreamy  Kid Eugene  O'Neill 

Forbidden  Fruit George  J .  Smith 

Jezebel Dorothy  Stockbridge 

Sir  David  Wears  a  Crown Stuart  Walker 

izmo.     Silk  Cloth  $  3.75 
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Stewart  Kidd  Plays 

MASTERPIECES 

OF  MODERN  SPANISH 

DRAMA 

EDITED,  WITH  A  PREFACE,  BY 

BARRETT  H.   CLARK 

"A  volume  that  will  prove  of  unusual  interest  to  lovers  of  the 
theatre."— Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

The  collection  of  plays  in  this  volume  has  a  distinct  value, 
representing,  as  it  does,  three  varied  aspects  of  the  dramatic 
genius  of  Spain — Echegaray,  Galdos  and  Guimera,  the  Catalon- 
ian  Nationalist. 

Two  of  the  plays,  the  "Duchess  of  San  Quentin"and  "Daniela, " 
have  never  before  been  translated. 

Mr.  Clark,  the  editor,  who  is  well-known  to  all  lovers  and 
students  of  the  drama,  gives,  in  his  prefaces,  a  concise  and  illumi 
nating  survey  of  the  drama  in  Spain,  both  old  and  new. 

Each  play  is  preceded  by  a  biographical  sketch  and  a  complete 
chronological  list  of  the  dramatist's  works. 

THE  GREAT  GALEOTO,  a  tragedy,  by  Jose  Echegaray, 
translated  by  Eleanor  Bontecou  (presented  to  the  American  public 
by  Wm.  Faversham,  under  the  title  "The  World  and  his  Wife") 

"an  instance  of  Echegaray's  melodramatic  and  essentially 

Spanish  genius." 

DANIELA,  a  tragic  drama,  by  Angel  Guimera,  translated  by 
John  Garrett  Underhill.  "Daniela  comes  to  us  with  all  the  force 
of  a  new  sensation,  .  .  .  .by  virtue  of  the  profound  and  tragic 
poetry  of  its  theme.  (It)  is  of  the  great  order." — The  Dial. 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  SAN  QUENTIN,  a  comedy,  by 
Benito  Perez-Galdos,  translated  by  Philip  M.  Hayden.  "Galdos 
has  done  a  rare  bit  of  character  portrayal." — Cleveland  Plain 
Dealer. 

"All  the  plays  are  essentially  racial  and  as  such  will  deeply 
interest  the  student  of  European  Drama." — Argonaut. 

IZMO,  SILK  CLOTH,  NET  $2.50 
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PUBLISHERS  CINCINNATI,  U.  S.  A. 


Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

European  Theories  of  the  Drama 

By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

An  Anthology  of  Dramatic  Theory  and  Criticism  from  Aristotle  to  the  present  day 
in  a  series  of  selected  texts,  with  Commentaries,  Biographies  and  Bibliographies 

A  book  of  paramount  importance.  This  monumental 
anthology  assembles  for  the  first  time  the  epoch-making 
theories  and  criticisms  of  the  drama  from  the  beginnings  in 
Greece  to  the  present,  and  each  excerpt  is  chosen  with  refer 
ence  to  its  effect  on  subsequent  dramatic  writing.  The  texts 
alone  are  immensely  valuable,  and  the  comments  constitute  a 
history  of  dramatic  criticism. 

It  is  the  most  important  body  of  doctrine  on  the  drama  to 
be  obtained,  appeals  to  all  who  are  interested  in  the  theatre, 
and  is  indispensable  to  students. 

The  introduction  to  each  section  of  the  book  is  followed 
by  an  exhaustive  bibliography.  Each  writer  whose  work  is 
represented  is  made  the  subject  of  a  brief  biography.  The 
entire  volume  is  rendered  doubly  valuable  by  the  index,  which 
is  worked  out  in  great  detail. 

Contributors  to  the  Success  of  this  Volume: 

Aristotle  Moliere  Goethe 

Horace  Racine  Schlegel 

Donatus  Boileau  Hebbel 

Dante  Saint-Evremont       Wagner 

Daniello  Dryden  Freytag 

Minturno  Milton  Hugo 

Scaliger  Rymer  Dumas  fils 

Sebillet  Congreve  Sarcey 

De  la  Taille  Farquhar  Zola 

Cervantes  Addison  Brunetiere 

Lope  de  Vega  Johnson  Maeterlinck 

Tirso  de  Molina  Goldsmith  Coleridge 

Sidney  Goldoni  Lamb 

Jonson  Lessing  Hazlitt 

Ogier  Voltaire  Pinero 

Chapelain  Diderot  Jones 

Abbe  d'Aubignac  Beaumarchais  Shaw 

Corneille  Schiller  Archer 

Large  8vo,  500  pages Net  $5.00 

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THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  THEATER Anonymous  $1.25 

BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  DRAMA  OF  TODAY 

Barrett  H.Clark  2.50 

EUROPEAN  THEORIES  OF  THE  DRAMA  Barrett  H.  Clark  5.00 

CONTEMPORARYFRENCHDRAMATISTS  Barrett  H.  Clark  2.50 

FOUR  PLAYS  OF  THE  FREE  THEATER  . .  Barrett  H.  Clark  2.50 
THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

Geo.  Cram  Cook  &  Frank  Shay,  Editors  2.50 

THE  Two  CROM WELLS Liddell  DeLesseline  1.50 

PLAYS  AND  PLAYERS Walter  Prichard  Eaton  3.00 

THE  ANTIGONE  OF  SOPHOCLES 

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THE  CHANGING  DRAMA Archibald  Henderson  2.50 

EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS Archibald  Henderson  3.00 

GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW:  His  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Archibald  Henderson  7.50 

SHORT  PLAYS Mary  MacMillan  2.50 

MORE  SHORT  PLAYS Mary  MacMillan  2.50 

THE  GIFT Margaret  Douglas  Rogers  1.00 

COMEDIES  OF  WORDS  AND  OTHER  PLAYS 

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LUCKY  PEHR August  Strindberg  2.50 

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EASTER : August  Strindberg  2.50 

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PORTMANTEAU  ADAPTATIONS  ....  Stuart  Walker,  net  2.50 

THREE  PLAYS Stark  Young  1.35 

"MADRETTA",  "AT  THE  SHRINE",  "ADDIO". 

Stewart  Kidd  Modern  Plays 
Edited  by  FRANK  SHAY 

MANSIONS Hildegarde  Planner  .50 

THE  SHEPHERD  IN  THE  DISTANCE.  .Holland Hudson  .50 

HEARTS  TO  MEND H.  A.  Overstreet  .50 

SHAM Frank  G.  Tompkins  .50 

Six  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

Stuart  Walker  .50 

THE  EMPEROR  JONES Eugene  O'Neill  .50 

SWEET  AND  TWENTY Floyd  Dell  .50 

Two  SLATTERNS  AND  A  KING 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-20m-9,'61(C3106s4)444 


THEATER  ARTS  LIBRARY 


JLi.s.Ci..illan  - 
1'hird  book  of 
short  nlavs 


A  000  929  287  1 


'VTS                    w  j 

\N 

-  7  1958 

PS 


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